


lay down your weapons (just give me trust)

by bittersweetnightshade144



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Coping with trauma, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Kira Nerys is Dealing With A Lot, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, brief mentions of violence, she's doing her best
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:07:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 28,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28095909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bittersweetnightshade144/pseuds/bittersweetnightshade144
Summary: Kira Nerys fought her entire life to survive the Occupation. None of that fighting ever prepared her for the new struggle of living in the aftermath, and the weight of carrying her own past. Jadzia Dax, in all her stubbornly-endearing glory, is doing her best to help.
Relationships: Jadzia Dax/Kira Nerys
Comments: 31
Kudos: 27





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi folks! My gf convinced me to watch DS9 during quarantine and it was so good that it's driven me out of a five-year long fanfic-writing hiatus.
> 
> My favorite thing about Kira's character (other than her Powerful Gay Vibes) is her resilience (and occasionally her weakness) as she comes to terms with the aftermath of the Occupation. That's kinda where this fic comes from, focusing on that journey. The Kiradax relationship will probably build slowly -- I want to stay true to Kira's character, and in the beginning she clearly wasn't a fan of the Federation newcomers.
> 
> I've got the first few chapters mapped out and right now I'm loosely sticking to canon events, but it'll eventually diverge in the future. This first chapter is set somewhere in early-to-mid-Season 1.
> 
> As this story is written from Kira's POV and focuses heavily on her dealing with the trauma of the occupation, there will be descriptions of PTSD, and some mentions of violence/loss/grief. I'll do my best to put any chapter-specific content warnings in the authors' notes!
> 
> This is unbetaed, and I'm also new to AO3 so hopefully the formatting doesn't turn out too wonky!

I’ve become used to the feeling of feeling too much. Not that I’ve ever willingly admitted it aloud. Being overwhelmed is a constant state of being, just as it is for many Bajorans. One of many after-effects of the Occupation, I suppose. The Occupation. Dwelling on it brought its own distinct flavour of overwhelm, a rancid, acerbic taste that fills my mind like spoiled wine, like bitter ash, like the acidic, shifting dust of a farmer’s field, bled dry by repeated chemical assaults. Every experience was multilayered; every small, stinging wound brought with it a legacy of pain. A sum of lifetimes’ worth of trauma, contradictions, realities.

That’s all it is, though. Reality. An unavoidable fact for many. The cost of surviving. It’s a burden I bear with a strange, sharp-edged sense of gratitude. Thinking of survival brings to mind hazy memories of once-familiar faces. My father’s creased forehead, my mother’s smooth cheek, the wide eyes of my brothers. I can barely remember them, their features are indistinct and worn away. The act of barely-remembering stings at my eyes, and I leave it be.

Millions of my people have been denied the experience of survival. Denied the pleasure of waking in a panicked sweat, wild-eyed in the foreign, dark quiet of the night. Denied the chilling moments of being snatched from themselves, from that moment in time and reality, and dragged into memories thick and choking as tar. Denied the pain of instinctively reaching for a parent, a partner, a sibling, only to be shocked back into loneliness. Denied the unresolving ache of an old wound healed poorly, a limp, a scar. Denied the strange feeling of displacement inherent in adjusting to peacetime after knowing nothing but war.

A familiar cavalry of feelings rushes in at the thought – burning eyes, tightening in my chest, a numb-tingling in the tips of my fingers. I need to focus, I’m on duty. Duty comes before everything else. I tighten my grasp on the railing in front of me, replacing the unsettling numbness there with the cool weight of the metal. My left knee quivers in a moment of weakness, a burning pain, and I tense it regardless. I stand steely, unwavering, focusing on the stability of my boots against the floor.

I’m on the deck above the Promenade, looking down. I can hear the soft burbling of mid-afternoon chatter among business-owners and patrons, the staccato sound of children’s footsteps interspersed with sharp bursts of laughter. As I look down, the noise is briefly eclipsed by a roaring in my ears. I can see, for a glimpse, huddled masses of my people, exhausted from work, weary and traumatized, clinging to each other to stay upright. 

A youthful screech breaks through the fog, and when I look down again I see the shopkeepers, people lazily mulling about, and those rambunctious children playing. That is over, I am here now. This is reality. I am standing on the upper deck, overlooking the Promenade. There isn’t a Cardassian soldier in sight. I am here now, this is reality.

Below, new voices trickle into earshot. One is high-energy and expressive, chattering on with excitement, with sporadic pauses answered by the other, a sweet, measured, melodious tone. It takes me a half-second to recognize the newcomers; the pair of teal uniforms coming into view from behind the jumja-seller’s shop. The Doctor and the Lieutenant. Likely headed to Quark’s, marking the end of their shift. They – technically all of Starfleet – have been here a few months. Enough time has passed since their arrival that their presence has started to become familiar. Familiar, but not quite comfortable. 

The different realities of the Promenade are jarring – the not-yet-forgotten grimy rabble of the Occupation, the unfamiliar-calm of the Bajoran shopkeepers, and the crisp propriety of the Starfleet officers, shoved together in a jumble of past and present. I’d expected Starfleet to turn tail and leave as quickly as they’d rushed in. Their continued presence here surprises me. It’s all precarious, uncertain and unsteady.

The Lieutenant, Dax, catches the spot I’m standing with her eyes, paused midway through a wide-eyed sweep of the Promenade. A flicker of recognition ignites in those eyes, blooming outward, turning her face into a barely-tempered grin. Even from this far away, I’m confused by what I see in those eyes, brimming with seeming-contradictions. 

There’s a guardedness there, fortified by lifetimes’ worth of knowledge. But the wisdom comes complemented by a youthful, exuberant, trusting openness. I’m used to being able to pin someone with my gaze, being able to read them plainly as writing. But not hers. It takes a few unmoving seconds for me to realize I’ve been staring her down wordlessly, and I force a nod to acknowledge her presence. She doesn’t seem unnerved by my skeptical gaze, if anything she looks amused now.  
Her attention flickers away – the doctor appears to be awaiting a response to a question of his. She pauses, shakes her head gently, with a barely-audible self-deprecating chuckle, apparently having lost her train of thought. She throws another mischievous glance my way, acting as though there’s some sort of inside joke unfolding. There’s the openness again, inviting me in. She pulls at me and I cannot understand why. I’ve given no indication of wanting them here. Them and their Starfleet benevolence, their propriety, their crisp uniforms. Their ability to show up far too late, to do far too little, and suddenly stake a claim in helping heal and rebuild.

The Lieutenant’s gaze isn’t Starfleet though. It’s friendly without pretense, warm. Confusing. It’s a simple gesture that fills me with anger, because how dare she be so simple, so kind. Simplicity isn’t a luxury I’ve ever been able to afford. Even the simplest goal – get rid of the Cardassians – came at the price of my childhood and my freedom, my softness and my simplicity. What gives her, any of them, the right to walk around here so unharmed?

She’s still looking up at me quietly, the Doctor having slipped away into Quark’s. Her gaze holds, but the amusement has vanished. It’s like she could read my mind – can she? I’m suddenly very aware that I know so little about her people – the Trill. They aren’t telepaths, aren’t they? Her grin is now a soft, upturned curl of her lips. Every aspect of her expression radiates gentle concern. The sincerity there is so jarring I almost lose my nerve. It’s that wisdom again, those numerous lifetimes that get brought up in all her stories. That wisdom is soft and caring, holding me in its grasp even from afar. I can’t help but soften in return. I was angry a moment ago, filled with generations’ worth of inherited fury. That feeling still exists, but for an instant I almost smile at her. She seems to take note of this slip. With a measured dip of her head, she’s gone from view, following the Doctor away. 

She leaves, but her after-effects remain. For a few moments I stay standing, staring at the spot of slate-grey Cardassian flooring where she stood. My face feels odd, twisted into an unfamiliar half-smile, a stunning display of public weakness. I can feel my jaw grit on instinct, wrestling the feeling down, pushing it back to live alongside the other contradictions and complexities. Shoving it somewhere between my thoughts on the Federation’s arrival-slash-takeover, and what remains from the Occupation. 

A familiar bitter, guilty taste bloomed on the back of my tongue, my lips soldering into a grim line in response. Remembering does me no good. Complexity brings weakness, and anger is so simple, such an easy fuel to burn. I’ve got no time for this, I’ve stood here long enough. I don’t bother looking down to the Promenade as I shift my weight firmly into my boots. There are personnel assignments to review in my quarters; I must keep pushing ahead.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's much longer than the first, and it's set just after Season 1 Episode 19 "Duet". Watching that episode for the first time, I was struck with a thought that was something like "huh, if I was Kira, and I had to listen to Marritza pretending to gloat about all the horrors her people went through, that'd kinda mess me up a bit". So that's where this came from, it's Kira's reaction immediately following the events of the episode, and what things I thought it might have brought up. This chapter feels a little disorganized still (it's taking a little while to get a feel for Kira's character and her internal monologue) but at this point I've edited it three times over so it's as good as I think it'll ever be. But Dax and Kira actually get to talk to each other in this one, which is fun!
> 
> The first half of this focuses on memories of the Resistance, and will contain brief references to violence against Cardassians, as a content warning for y'all.
> 
> The next chapter is half-written (and will likely be about the same length), but it'll be a little while before that one's ready to post! Thanks for reading! :)

The last thing I want to do is to write a debrief report for Starfleet on the events of today. I don’t want to do anything at all, other than forget. That’s been the reigning thought in my mind all day – forget this, forget all of this, it’s the only way to survive. It was always a specialty of mine. It’s how I earned Shakaar’s respect so quickly, years ago. I knew that the minute I showed up knife in hand and pledging my life, he saw me as yet another angry, naïve child. So weakened by poor conditions that I’d probably blow away like chaff at the first strong wind. Anger was the only weapon I’d shown any proficiency in wielding, and anger ultimately does little when facing down disruptor-fire.

I can remember gritting my teeth at him and squaring my jaw, hands fisted at my hips. My every movement jostled the knife I kept hanging at my right side, tied to the waistband of too-loose pants. I wanted him to notice the weapon, to see I knew what I was getting myself into. I saw myself sharp as flint, angry but cold. The death of my mother and my brothers was cruel yes, but they meant nothing to the Cardassians. There was no tenderness, no holiness, no amount of care in anything they did to us. The Cardassians hated all of us, none of it was personal to them. They were cold too. As angry as I was at my losses, I knew I needed to be just as cold-hearted if I was going to face them. I’m sure Shakaar thought it was all an act at first. But I was stubborn, I convinced him it was worthwhile to trust me.

The raid had been simple enough, a hit-and-run attack on a small administrative outpost. The workers there coordinated Cardassian troop postings and Bajoran work-group assignments for a handful of labor camps in the area. They were unlikely to be heavily-defended, and flooding from a rainstorm the night before last had taken their transporter system offline. Any reinforcements would need to travel over land to get there, and the nearest patrol was stationed forty-five minutes away by ground transport. It was simple – get in, destroy whatever possible, and get out before any reinforcements had the chance to arrive.

I ran over the plan in my mind until nightfall– the access points, the number of Cardassians we expected to encounter, the weak points in their body armor. The backs of the knees, where the chestplate hung down over their hips, wrists, elbows, neck. Knees, hips, wrists, elbows, neck. My hands were wrapped so tightly with strips of fabric that they couldn’t relax – they hung half-curled, permanently tensed around the space where the hilt of a knife should fit. I lay belly-down beneath the underbrush – scrubby prickly branches clawed my back, but the cold ground against my underside left me mostly numb to the feeling. In the low light, all I could see was the outpost in the distance, and the glinting of an older man – Furel’s – eyes to my right, a few hundred paces away. He would be giving the signal. My focus laid solely on him.

I blinked to clear the dust from my eyes and instead saw space-station walls. Scratchy carpet prickled against my rough uniform pants. The ground was cool, but not the biting-cold of damp Bajoran soil. I do not entirely recognize my surroundings, I know I’m on Deep Space Nine, but for the life of me I can’t tell what floor I’m on or which of the many corridors stretches into the distance from either side of me. My heartbeat rattles in my chest, and that feels familiar. I felt it that night, and many times since. I caught a glint of light-on-metal out of the corner of my right eye, obscured like it was flickering behind leaves.

At the sight of the signal I was back in the moment, back on my belly, clambering low along the rough ground to avoid detection. Gravel bit and gouged at my knees, wrists, elbows, surely leaving patches of raw skin. I didn’t bother looking down, nothing could break my focus. The outpost was ahead, and my knife was strapped tightly against my hip, no longer eye-catching, swinging heavy at my side. The knife was mine, the sheath and holster were gifts from the cell. I hadn’t yet proven myself able to handle one of the few stolen disrupters they had, but they sent me in as well-prepared as possible with the resources they had. I was new and this was a test, not a slaughter.

Once I reached the door, I was to make a commotion. One or two workers would undoubtedly check the door while the four other Cardassians would take up a defensive posture on the other side of the room, nearest to Furel and the open window. I was in charge of the ones at the door, and while they were distracted, he had an explosive device to toss in the open window. Cardassians’ behavior and training made them predictable, and the explosion would destroy most of the outpost, and all of their files on the Bajoran workers. It would take them weeks to collect everyone’s personal information and work permits, and in that time, any laborers who attempted escape would be harder to track down.

I reached the door, pulse thundering in my ears, still pressed flat against the earth. Furel was out of sight, in position. It came down to me, and my ability to stick with the plan. To trust that he would do the same. I didn’t know these people well at all, but they shared my face, they shared my pain. If I wanted to be accepted, in all my awkward and angry youth, I needed to prove I trusted them without question. I would carry out my task, and he would carry out his. 

Directly beneath the threshold of the door, I burst into a frenzy of noise, scrabbling and scratching in the dirt and at the door with my heels, attempting to mimic a wounded or feral animal, anything to conceal the danger I posed until the last possible moment. There was some hushed commotion indoors, a muttered conversation, followed by the heavy tread of boot-steps approaching the door. The locking mechanism disengaged, and the light from inside stretched into a slash against the grey-brown earth and the crumpled grasses. I waited, breath held and muscles throbbing with adrenaline, waiting to disengage and leap at the sound of boot-soles snarling against gravel. He stepped one pace past the door, his figure looming above me like a weapon or a watchtower, and I had my opening.

The stinging pain in my knees, wrists, elbows faded into a hazy buzz as the world slowed in time with my heartbeat. I leapt out, my blade so tightly held in my grasp that it felt like it was fused into my very bones. Thank the Prophets, only one had come to investigate. Using all the strength available in my ropy limbs, I slashed the blade at the backs of his knees, aiming for the gaps in the body armor. Cardassian scales make a tough shell, but with the entirety of my force behind them, the movements were easy and clean. Some soft, pliant resistance, followed by a satisfying sharp spray of brown blood. Nothing registered in my brain other than the visceral urge to incapacitate him quickly. He fell backward with a graceless thud, caught off-guard, weak spots left open. He hadn’t yet looked down and seen me. I ensured he never had that chance. His greyish head fell limp, eyes cold as river-stones. His blood gleamed inky-black in the darkness, spreading like nightfall. Victory felt like nothing to my numb, animal brain.

The world, having slowed to a crawl, leapt back into rapid-fire action as I heard Furel’s shout to get clear of the building. I dug my heels and hands into the heavy-damp ground, lunging back into the cover of night, surging over the gravel and the dirt and the crushed grass I’d so carefully navigated moments before. I felt the explosion before I ever heard it, the blast kicking me to the ground, forceful like a boot between my shoulder blades. I felt the wind shoved violently from my chest, and for a moment I was disoriented. Ice spread through my limbs, paralyzing fear. He was behind me, he was going to kill me. I was going to die here, ears ringing from the noise, facedown in the dirt.

I sucked in a painful half-breath, and that’s when I remembered. I killed that man. Dead men don’t fight back. The whining in my ears and the cold, liquid pain in my ribcage was evidence I was still alive. The dark blurriness threatening at the corners of my eyes however, told me I was running out of time. I was flying somehow, body jerking over roots and uneven ground on instinct alone. I had no control over it. The pain was rapidly becoming vague, almost fuzzy, as shock set in. My consciousness tossed and bobbed as if it was swimming, just out of reach of my body, my brain. I don’t remember seeing, being aware of my surroundings in any way. All I was capable of was feeling, feeling the pain like moonshine, dulling my senses and making me feel lost.

I wasn’t aware of it, but I arrived back at our camp, wild-eyed and delirious with pain. Splattered with brown-black Cardassian-filekeeper-blood, I’m sure. I don’t remember being conscious, I don’t remember falling asleep. The memory starts up again days later. I could suddenly remember the man I’d killed, the singlehanded focus I’d felt. Now, I was able to feel victory. It felt like clarity. His death marked my birth as a freedom fighter. Killing him had earned me a place of dignity in this world. His people had stolen my family, my childhood, my home, my culture, my dignity. The Cardassians were relentless in their occupation, so I will be relentless in my defiance. I would kill every last one of them if it earned me back my home.

All of a sudden, after a lifetime of war, my home was my own again. Some part of me never left that camp, never left those nights lying in wait. How do I live like that when my world is now free? It doesn’t feel how I thought it would feel, I expected freedom to feel lighter, more fulfilling. Instead I just feel conflicted. The part of me that dutifully killed Cardassians for years still remains. I watched that nameless man bleed out all those years ago, and I felt nothing other than a sense of duty. I saw Marritza die, lying belly-up like a fish in his civilian clothes, and I felt loss and anger and guilt and horror and shame and regret and sadness and hopelessness and a thousand other feelings loudly talking over each other. 

So much had changed. The Occupation was over. Suddenly there were consequences to the generations’ worth of brutality handed down and tucked aside. It all came rushing to the surface. I couldn’t make sense of any of it. Not my feelings, and not the hateful slaughter of an old dying man wearing the face of my longtime oppressors.

I couldn’t think of him as universally guilty like I’d been able to during the occupation, it was clear from the pain in his voice that he took no pleasure in the violence he witnessed. But he still was a witness, he felt guilt but did nothing to stop the horrors. Every day he played his part in a system designed to exterminate and oppress, and didn’t that make him guilty in some way? Not guilty by nature of being born Cardassian, but guilty through years of inaction? If he was guilty, why did his death fill me with such cold sorrow? I was losing hold of ‘now’ once more, dragged and tossed backwards by an undertow of questions and feelings and choking memories.

“Major?” A voice shocked me out of my own head, out of the mulling thoughts and into the present. I’ve been sitting here a while, the carpet nipping against my ankles and wrists for so long they were red and raw. Not dirty and scratched by stones, but pink and rippled like a fresh burn. There’s a pair of low black leather boots in front of me, with Starfleet-issue uniform pants sprouting up tall like an ancient tree. From the zenith, soft blue eyes regarded me, clear as a Bajoran summer sky.

“Lieutenant.” I muttered in acknowledgement. I was suddenly incredibly aware of how foolish I looked. The station security officers converged after the attack on the Promenade, but I merely stumbled away. No clear destination in mind. I’m in a random corridor on the Habitat ring somehow, sitting crumpled into the corner where the floor meets the wall. Staring off blankly into space. I braced my elbows against my folded knees and pressed the heels of my hands into my forehead, hoping that the dull pressure would bring about clarity. Lieutenant Dax was still standing patiently, keeping an arm’s-length distance between us.

“May I?” She asked, gesturing at the space on the floor to my side. I shrugged, let her decide what to make of that. It felt like my mind was wrapped in woolen blankets, everything felt vague and far away, too warm and stifling. She sat down next to me, maintaining her distance, neatly arranging those long, tall legs into a compact position. She made no move to reach out; I couldn’t help feeling relieved at that.

My eyes were hazy and unfocused, facing forward, so the Starfleet officer was barely a teal-and-grey smudge at the corner of my eyes. Even though I couldn’t see her, I could picture her in this moment, as if I was staring down at us from outside of myself. She’d be wearing that unsettling soft-concerned expression, eyes wide and blue and searching within herself for the best way forward, for the right thing to say. Looking for consensus across seven lifetimes of experiences.

Apparently the agreed-upon answer was to remain quiet since that’s what she seems to be doing. Something about her stillness, her soft easy breaths, gave me the impression that she’d sit here for hours if I let her. The subtle rush of her breathing brought me elsewhere, to nights spent keeping watch while my comrades slept restlessly nearby. 

A chill rattled through my frame and I had to remind myself I wasn’t there any longer. The surface beneath me is short-cropped Cardassian carpeting, not the dusty earth I was willing to give my life for. I’m here, on Deep Space Nine-not-Terok Nor, and nothing feels as familiar as my memories. I’m thinking about being here-and-not-there, trying to place myself in time, and eventually the thoughts find their way into my mouth.

“Do you ever feel like you’re somewhere else?” My sentence ends on a sharp inhale as I find myself unsure of how to address her. Lieutenant is what I’ve stubbornly stuck to ever since Starfleet shoved its way into my life. It keeps things distant, professional, unfamiliar. It made it easier to be cold. But thinking of her as Lieutenant makes me think of my own title, and right now I don’t feel like Major Kira. I’m caught in between then and now. Back then I had no title, no honor beyond my family name and the tradition it stood for. Calling her Dax however, that feels like surrender. I don’t surrender.

“Yes, sometimes I do.” She murmurs, her voice low and sweet and tentative, like light feet on the young ice that lays over a lake after the first frost. Unsure of the weaknesses hidden in this feeling-resembling-trust, not quite certain it’ll hold her weight. “Sometimes something will happen, and it’ll trigger memories and associations and thoughts that aren’t entirely my own. Everything is multi-layered, but that’s the nature of having lived many lifetimes I suppose.” I want to appreciate her honesty, But I can’t help feeling disappointment. Of course she doesn’t understand, it was stupid of me to say anything. She isn’t one of us. She’s lived many lives, but none of those experiences can compare to the experiences of my people.

Before I can bite it back, a frustrated sigh escapes me. For all the complexities of having multiple lives all jostling around inside of you, I know she was prepared well. I know she trained her whole life, received continued support and encouragement. Her complexities are earned, but they’re also a privilege. Nothing could have prepared me for the world I was born into. Dax’s hands are moving slightly, rubbing over each other in an anxious habit I’d never seen before. Perhaps not even her own. 

She feels bad, and some part of me wants to reassure her. The louder part of me, the angry part, doesn’t want anything resembling her pity. It doesn’t think she deserves reassurance. Hurt feelings won’t kill you, she’s the one who should be more thoughtful. She shouldn’t even be here. The feeling leaps up inside of me, sharp-clawed and bitter, and I wrestle it down like it’s a starved hara-cat. I’m busy fighting the urge to snarl and lash out, maybe that’s why her name slips out.

“Dax it’s… it’s fine. I’m sorry I asked.” I mutter back at her. There’s an edge of bitterness behind my words, but it sounds tired and wounded. The anger-feeling is defensive; I can’t say I hold any real ire for the Trill. I’ve been scraped raw by the act of remembering today, that’s what sets the anger on edge. It’s an injured animal-feeling, desperate to fight its way out of any corner. I can’t tell if Dax can sense any of that – she’s eerily perceptive at times. The thought makes me defensive again, I don’t want to be that easy to read. She takes notice of the use of her name and it seems to push her to regroup, to try again.

“You had an awful day today. I’m sorry about that. You didn’t deserve to have to deal with it all, the situation with Marritza. I’m sure it was difficult.” There was a level of uncertainty in her tone I was unused to hearing coming from her. She’s usually so confident and self-assured. This was a new side of Dax, one I had little experience with. Her voice quivered with conviction, a slight reedy edge to it where the sounds caught on the emotion clouding her throat. She needed me to know she saw my pain, that it was real. Something about that emphasis on objective fact helped anchor me in the current moment. I’m here now, not the past. The anger bleeds out and a wave of exhaustion rushes in.

“Awful’s one way to put it. It is what it is.” Awful didn’t come close to describing it, but it was simpler than explaining how I actually felt experiencing today. Awful is far more concise than describing the free-falling despair, the lack of control, the memories I was half-drowning in. A firm shock of warmth bloomed against my forearm, shaking me back into awareness of myself and my body. Dax’s arm was stretched across the space between us, her hand on my arm, neatly-kept nails stuck loosely in the thick fabric of my uniform jacket. She held on tightly; the tension making her knuckles gleam like pearls. The force, the emotion behind the action shocked me. As I met her gaze, I noted she seemed taken by surprise as well.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding, feeling the faint-buzzing feeling drain from my temples, the dark spots receding from my vision. A new feeling rushed in, pooling where the anger had dug its claws in moments ago. I wanted to thank her for bringing me back here, for the firm-gentle grasp anchoring me to myself. I wanted more somehow, and an inexplicable urge to cover her hand with my own sprang up in the pit of my stomach. 

It was a silly, confusing impulse that I couldn’t quite understand, so I focused elsewhere, on the whirlwind of bodily sensations I’d become newly-aware of. The tightness at the base of my neck, the tired straining of all the muscles in my limbs, tangled and tensed into knots on the floor. My head felt foggy, heavy like ore, and it hurt to think thoughts. There was a sharp pain in my gut, a response to stress I’d become familiar with over the years. My hands were shaking – I knew Dax could probably tell. I could feel the muscles in my forearm tensing and jumping spastically, pressing against her hand in an erratic, staccato beat.

“Kira… Is there anything I can do to help?” Dax softly asks, leaning closer, prompting me to look up at her face. Everything felt slow and sluggish, the inevitable coming-down off the high of panic into the lull of exhaustion. I couldn’t even think about what help would feel like. This is reality, nothing helps that. I’m thinking these things but they can’t quite become words, the messages keep getting lost in the fog. My jaw hangs slack for a moment until I catch up, snapping it shut. I should lie down. My shift ended hours ago, and I don’t want to hang around the Promenade to socialize. I don’t want to write this Starfleet report. My legs feel mostly unresponsive, both from the fear and from sitting in such a tight, contorted position. I don’t want to stay here, but I can’t seem to move.

“My quarters” I managed to stutter out, voice warbling with the same tremors that shake my hands. Dax, to her credit, understood immediately, propping herself up so she was kneeling in front of me. I briefly missed the grounding feeling of her hand on my arm, but it returned, this time as both of her hands hesitantly hovered at the sides of my forearms.

“Can I help you up?” She tested, searching for permission before fully laying her hands on me. I managed a jerky nod and on cue, they braced against me, slowly lifting my stiff figure forward so I could drag my feet underneath me. One arm circled around to my back, supporting my weight as she pulled us both into a standing position. The wall is at my back and her body is to my front, her arms firmly boxing me in on both sides. Some part of my numb-brain yelped, it felt too close, dangerously vulnerable, and I couldn’t stifle the small gasp shaken loose by the fresh bolt of fear. Hearing my sharp intake of breath, Dax re-positioned, moving to my side with an arm around my back and a hand firm against my arm, giving more space and allowing for an escape route, if necessary. The fear receded, followed quickly by the return of the foggy feeling. 

I jerked my head over so I could look up at her, my gaze initially meeting with the underside of her jaw. My head was spinning, dizzy, and the feeling made the spots there dance back and forth in a lazy pattern. She angled her head down to meet my gaze, an indiscernible emotion shining in those wide blue eyes. For a moment I forgot about the numbness in my legs as I tried to step forward, nearly sending both of us stumbling to the ground, my dead weight pulling her off balance. She chuckled softly as she held me upright.

“Whoa there, let’s just focus on putting one foot in front of the other, okay?” I could tell she was making fun of me, but her tone was so kind that the teasing didn’t sting. I felt like I was hovering outside of myself again, able to observe things unfolding, but not truly feeling, not reacting. I watched myself struggling to plant my feet on the floor, Dax patiently waiting. Regarding myself from this detached perspective, I was filled with the cold urge to run. To leave this clumsy, feeble, struggling body behind. To flee from the consequences of the memories. To run so far away from the feeling of choking panic, from the paralyzing brain-fog that always follows. I knew I couldn’t though, I was resigned to that fact. My consciousness was tethered like a small shuttlecraft, drifting powerlessly while Lieutenant Dax gently guided me home.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again! This chapter's set after Season 2 Episode 2, The Circle, I think it's called? I had most of it written, and then as I proofread it I had an impulse to add More Gay Tenderness. Dax is such a fun character to interact with because she's just so open and eager to befriend people, especially with Kira in the earlier seasons. She's too stubborn to be turned away by Kira's too-tough demeanor, and at this point Kira's come to begrudgingly accept that she's here to stay.
> 
> I swear, someday I'll write a chapter with more than 9 words of dialogue, but this one isn't it! Kira's just got a lot of thoughts, and at this point in her character development she's not particularly keen to talk feelings. (Also I just have a Lot of Feelings about Kira trying to cope with it all and I love to ramble on about them via her own internal monologue.)
> 
> Content warning for references to abduction and torture (which happens to Kira in that episode), as well as more Kira-sorting-through-trauma-feelings.

I should be glad to have a task after days of wandering the monastery aimlessly, arranging rocks and trying to remember how to breathe. Being so fortunate as to hear the Prophets speak, receiving their words, it was a gift. Why did it have to be such a confusing, deeply unsettling gift? Be useless, what kind of advice is that? The Prophets give our lives purpose and meaning, how am I supposed to be useless? I want to follow their words, but the very thought of existing idly made panic leap up my throat. 

I barely even know how to exist here anymore. The climate-controlled, echoing corridors of Deep Space Nine have become surprisingly familiar as of recent. It’s all unnatural – the replicated air in my lungs and artificial gravity keeping my feet to the floor. But this new normal grounded me in a new reality. Being back on Bajor now was jarring. It felt nothing like the Bajor I grew up in.

I’ve spent hours in the gardens, shifting rocks back and forth, my fingertips going numb under the constant lapping of the river-water. Nothing feels perfect, something always seems out of place. That feline anger-feeling snarls within me, bristling with a life of its own, as I let a smooth, palm-sized stone fall from my hands and clatter against the riverbed. I fought and killed for you! For this planet, for the dirt beneath my fingernails and the water spattering my pant legs. I’ve taken countless lives for a free Bajor, why does it all feel so imperfect now? The rocks didn’t know, didn’t seem to care. They simply sat where I dropped them, fracturing the water into rivulets that spiraled and rollicked against each other. Heat rushed to my face, making me burn red as I realized how stupid I surely looked, getting angry at stones.

The gardens are alive with noise – the river singing high and reedy, the creak-groan of the large trees in the wind, and the far-off crackling of weapons-fire. If I listen closely, if I close my eyes and imagine the noise coming from a temporary encampment instead of soft flowering bushes, things might almost feel familiar. I could feel myself slipping into old habits, a well-worn mindset. In the Resistance I wouldn’t have been on my own like this for any long period of time. It was always safer to have someone watching your back. I’d never felt quite so alone, and that set me on edge. 

I was hyperaware of my surroundings as a result, the cool brushing of wind along the short hairs at the base of my head, the occasional flash of movement out of the corner of my eye, a leaf waving in the breeze. The weapons-fire was muddled and drowned out by the soft normal noises, and I couldn’t hear speaking or footsteps. They were out there, but they weren’t near. I tried to let that reassure me.

I turned my attention to the river again, watching the water bend and move with a grace endowed by the Prophets. I tried to re-focus, as I was taught years ago, to return to my body and to be aware of myself, to meditate. I used to be able to find calm in the least serene of settings – in the unsleeping shift-working chaos of the refugee camp, in the groaning hustle of Terok Nor, in a hastily-built camp in the Dahkur hills with Cardassian patrols threateningly close. The fact that I can’t slow my breath and focus my thoughts now, in a quiet garden under familiar skies, is deeply frustrating. My mind wants to wander, so I’ll allow it.

I am grateful to be here, the reprieve is somewhat clarifying. At the very least, without the daily chaos involved in running a space station constantly stealing my attention, I’m forced to confront my thoughts. As unpleasant as that often is. Speaking with Vedek Bareil has been helpful too, it’s been a while since I’ve had a friend who simply understands. Sisko, Dax, the others, they all try, to their credit. I can tell they’re sometimes uneasy around me, unsure, set on edge by the tension in my shoulders and the firmness in my voice. As much as they’re kind and professional, they see me as unpredictable, a loose cannon, something to be wary of. 

Bareil doesn’t waver when my eyes cloud over with memory, when my sentences trail off, when I jump at shadows or lash out unexpectedly. The tiredness in his eyes mirrors my own, and he listens with the patience of someone who’s lived the same, painful life. It takes so much less energy to exist here, in some ways. Despite the threat of violence ever-nearing, it’s a relief to feel understood.

I’m conflicted. In some ways I feel at ease among my people, but I can’t help missing my post on Deep Space Nine. I stumble forward, somewhat lost in thought, and my boot splashes into the babbling water at the river’s edge. The current is only briefly interrupted, it quickly adjusts, flows around the intrusion to carry on its way. I feel slowly-spreading cold along the edges of my toes where the water is seeping into a crack somewhere in the leather. I’m about to step back when I’m met with a force rushing in the opposite direction.

There are arms around me, crushing my chest and pinning me immobile. I’ve stumbled forward into the river to keep myself upright and both of my feet are now wet. The rocks are slick and they rattle as I try to kick at the legs that have seemingly materialized around me. Instinct leaps into my throat and I thrash blindly, desperate to twist out of their grasp. It tightens, they hold on. A cold rounded object is shoved, blunt, into my neck and the drug hits my blood like ice. My limbs collapse limp and docile and the world sways around me like a damaged shuttlecraft. I can’t see, cannot move, can’t fight my way out.

I awaken, foggy and disoriented, head lolling on uncooperative muscles as I try to figure out where I am. I’m being threatened, being asked to provide information, and all I can do is grit my jaw and summon as defiant an expression as possible. I’m nauseated and dizzy from the sedative, and panic no longer sharpens my senses. The initial adrenaline rush has faded into a hazy, murky fog of overlapping impulses shrieking over one another. Somewhere within the chaos, the high-pitched animal panic, I notice my wet feet have gone bone-cold. My hands are trapped and my head is spinning, every fibre of my being is hyperaware. I’m in danger. The fact that my captors look like me and share my experiences is no comfort.

I’m not sure why they think they’re going to get any information from me. I’ve been moved to another part of the cavern, my ears are ringing and my head throbs where they struck me. They’ve lived through the same Occupation I did. They know the stubborn strength of the Bajoran spirit. They know that gritting my teeth and digging in my heels, ignoring the pain and holding my tongue, is something I’m skilled in. 

Some part of my conscious mind checks out after I take the first hit. The familiar pain, the clack of my teeth gritting against the disarming force, it takes me somewhere familiar. I’ve tucked the relevant parts of myself deep within my body for safekeeping, willing to ride out the pain until it ends. We’re all practiced in it, after all those years, numbly riding out the pain is a way of life. 

In between hits I can see they’re speaking to me, but I can’t make out any words. I can’t hear anything over the rushing of my own pulse, the high-pitched whine in my ears. I can only look up at them with one eye, watching their blurry lips moving, curled into ugly snarls. I no longer anticipate their blows, I can only watch the vague blurry motion, a flash of dyed-red knuckles in flight. The red is mine, I can assume I’ve been bleeding for a while. There’s darkness threatening at the edges of my already-limited vision, I know I’ll lose consciousness soon. They want information from me and are unlikely to kill me without getting it. Passing out will be a reprieve from all this.

Waking in the Infirmary on Deep Space Nine feels like being drenched with ice-water. The lights are bright and cold and the sudden change of setting is deeply disorienting. I lurch forward in panic, impulse driving me to orient myself, to protect my vulnerable spots, to regroup and defend myself. Hands press me back down and I’m back there once again. I’m being restrained by unseen forces, and this time I won’t be captured. My blunt nails sink into someone’s exposed skin and I twist like a fish in a net, ripping myself out from under their grasp.

“Kira! Kira please calm down!” A figure in front of me calls out, voice high and pleading. I’m sitting up now, my head is pounding from the exertion but something about being upright is soothing. The panic recedes enough for me to take in my surroundings, the bio-bed beneath me, Dr. Bashir to my left side, clutching some beeping piece of handheld-medical equipment in a white-knuckled grasp. His other hand moves slowly to cover a set of pink-red scratches on his opposing wrist. 

Dax is in front of me, her eyes wide with desperate concern. Her hands are up, hovering and ready, but not touching me. I know her well enough to know that her hesitance is a conscious choice – she knows my limits. She was aware of what The Circle had done to me. Heat rises to my cheeks at the thought of someone knowing so much, someone reading me so easily. Being understood means being vulnerable and vulnerability is uncomfortable, dangerous even. Not that she seemed to agree. Her and all the rest of them, so strangely vulnerable and free.

My hands are stiff and tight, the feeling accompanied by a dull, burning pain, and I realize I’ve been digging my fingernails into the smooth-tough material of the bio-bed ever since I came to. I focus on releasing that death-grip, and take a deep breath inward, bringing me back into this room. I’m here, in the Infirmary, I am safe. My eyes meet Dax’s and I’m able to watch the realization spark to life there. She softens from bold-faced worry to a reassuring familiarity, a comfort. She recognizes the consent in my eyes the instant I think it. 

Fine, you annoyingly trusting Trill, you can come closer. I know where I am now. You can stay. Her hands land, one firmly on my shoulder and the other soft on the sore side of my face, as her wry, almost mischievous smile takes flight. It crinkles the spots near the corners of her eyes. 

She holds so many contradictions, and yet somehow she knits them together into one seamless personality. There’s a silliness to her, a youthful smirking in her eyes, but the palms of her cool hands radiate caring with a wisdom and a depth earned through many lifetimes. Dax peers calmly over my head to the Doctor, a lighthearted glance, reassurance that it’s under control. I remember him clutching the reddening scratch wounds and I feel embarrassed, I feel guilt.

“I’m sorry Doctor. I’ll be still now.” I murmured, the noise slightly muffled by Dax’s hand holding my cheek. An understanding half-chuckle escapes from the back of his throat, and I grit my teeth to hold myself back from snapping. His amusement, however tempered by compassion, isn’t something I have any desire to tolerate. Dax’s lighthearted humor was currently the limit of what I could handle. My free use of her name reminds me that somehow she’d manage to establish herself as the exception to most of my rules. She’s stubbornly established a constant presence in my life these days. Thinking back to various meetings, snatches of small talk in Ops over her console, I can’t seem to remember exactly when I started thinking of her differently than the others.

Dr. Bashir springs back into a flurry of activity, darting around the room frenetically as he adjusts his medical tricorder while simultaneously making notes on a PADD. The young man always has so much energy buzzing away in that lanky frame of his. I often find it overwhelming, this moment is no exception. I’m used to the cool, quiet focus of my Resistance comrades. No action could risk being too loud, too flashy, too hurried. We didn’t have the luxury to exist freely without fear of attracting undesired attention. His voice contained all the same energy of his physical form, pitching up and down over a jumble of syllables in his rapid-fire accented tone.

“Now Major, I’m putting a note in your file to recommend you debrief this with one of the station’s counselors, it’s standard practice after such a traumatic experience, please make sure to follow –” I bolted upright from my relaxed position as if he’d physically struck me, cutting off his rambling speech. Anger flooded out from some tucked-away-spot within as I reeled back, my upper lip stiffening into a snarl. 

A memory leapt to the front of my mind, the first day I’d met the doctor, him babbling on stupidly about frontier medicine. Starry-eyed at the thought of healing such simple folk. Condescending and arrogant. Belittling my people, people with worlds’ more strength and dignity than he could even conceive of. A growl tore its way from my throat, leaking from my clenched jaw as I struggled for words, my voice coming out rough-sharp as a dagger.

“I will not speak to one of your Federation counselors, and you know nothing of my experiences. Now back off.” If it wasn’t for Dax’s still-soft hand on my cheekbone I could have spit at him. My heart was thundering as if I was under threat, and I could feel fresh adrenaline spilling into my blood, making my muscles jump and itch for a fight. The doctor was backpedaling, talking himself in frantic circles while the roaring in my ears drowned him out.

He knows nothing, none of them do. Least of all a Federation counselor. Some stranger in teal with a too-calm face and a patronizing tone, prying me open like an ancient tomb while their eyes gleam at the thought of looting through the contents within. The faceless counselor in my imagination mixes with the memory of Dr. Bashir, pitying and looking down on the poor trembling Bajorans. Stupid simple folk, how did they even make it this far without the Federation, their gracious saviors? 

They’ve lived here for months and they haven’t yet come to see my people’s strength? We endured—I endured—more than they can possibly imagine, how can they repeatedly demean that? How can they speak with such academic arrogance when they know nothing of the horrors of the Occupation? How can they belittle something they themselves can’t even hope to comprehend? My breaths came in hot, sharp snatches now, my conscious mind having ceded control to anger’s influence. My whole body was trembling without volition, shaking and rattling like a damaged ship scraping through thick atmosphere. 

Dax’s hand drifted from the taut line of my shoulder to the base of my neck, fingers stroking a slow, smooth rhythm over the muscles knotted there. I was here, I wasn’t going to run or fight, despite what my instincts were screaming for at the moment. Hot tears burned in my eyes as the frantic-anger-energy found itself with no other outlet. With one hand settled on my back and her other hand still resting lightly on the side of my face, I wasn’t about to go anywhere. Her posture was defensive, jaw gritted firmly and shoulders tilted forward like shelter. I was at eye-level with the waist of her uniform, nearly grazing the soft-trusting part where her symbiont resides. The show of protectiveness flicked a switch in that base, animal-part of my being. Someone was fighting for you, its safe to lower your guard.

My energy dropped into my boots, exhaustion setting in and making my muscles go lax. My head rolled forward under its own weight, much like when I came to in that cave, surrounded by The Circle and pinned like prey beneath Jaro’s gaze. Instead of being met with cruel hands though, this time the flat plane of my brow came to rest heavily against the curve of her abdomen. 

The contact was a shock, but before I could reel away Dax readjusted her hold on my head. Her hand released my cheek and drifted to the base of my skull, fingers weaving absentmindedly through the short hairs there, fluffing them up before smoothing them down. I was embarrassed by the blatant show of weakness, but I was also exhausted. The gentle touch did feel nice. After the beating I’d received earlier, her tenderness felt like a gift from the Prophets themselves. Such a wretched, miserable creature I was, and yet somehow, I’m still worthy of this. 

Mercifully, the way that my head was hanging, half-bowed against her front, hid my face as my eyes watered with emotion. If Dax noticed the thick, snuffling sound that bled into my breathing, if she suspected the tears in my eyes, she didn’t show it. Despite the intimacy of holding me to her midsection, cradling me in hands soft as salvation, she didn’t pry into the moment. She said nothing, she didn’t even glance down. Her form, determined and unmoving, carved out a spot of privacy in the middle of a crowded room. When she spoke, the vibrations from her voice resonating against my forehead, keeping me grounded.

" _Julian._ " She warned, voice low and protective, but still kind, like a parent scolding an overeager child. I didn’t know what he did in response, my figure still frozen in place by the post-anger, panic, uneasy-comfort, and exhaustion. I couldn’t do anything other than stare at the ground in front of me, waiting for the blurriness in my eyes to fade, following the clean lines of her Starfleet-issue uniform pants down to the boots on the Infirmary floor. Breath came easier now, and I focused my mind on each exhale, visualizing it as it left my body and spiraled out into the gap between Dax and me. I felt her take her own breath, deep and clarifying, leaving behind softness in its wake.

“Have you seen the article in the newest journal from Starfleet Medical? The one on the therapeutic potential for genetic reshuffling vectors? I figured, as a clinician, you’d have thoughts on the practical applications?” Her voice was light and welcoming now, an olive branch offered to the easily-excitable Doctor. One he happily accepted, eagerly launching into his own analysis of the issue, cramming additional opinions or commentary in between most sentences. 

The easy flow of their conversation faded into the background as I continued to breathe, focusing on my body, the feelings and sensations, grounding myself in the moment. I coaxed my muscles into sluggish cooperation, removing my forehead from where it rested against Dax and sitting back up. Her hands went loose to allow the free movement, only settling when she sensed I was comfortable again.

I softened my gaze in an unspoken thank you, eyes flicking up to meet hers briefly before darting away in a moment of self-consciousness. The sudden glimpse of her smile, wide and softened by a touch of awe, made the half-second of embarrassed eye contact worth it. Prophets, if vulnerability is indeed dangerous, then that smile should be a threat. It’s disarming, so soft and simple and free. The Doctor cleared his throat softly, facial expression toned down and clearly sorry.

“My apologies Major. May I finish treating these?” He gestured to the injured side of my face. I nodded my assent, angling my face so he could access the bruising and broken skin around my right eye. Dax shifted as well, hand gently cupping the uninjured side of my face, her thumb charting a lazy path back and forth over my cheekbone, to the curve of my ear, and back. I could describe most of her actions towards me as ‘surprisingly tender’, but for some reason the gentleness still startled me for a moment. Doctor Bashir was flitting about, the hum of the dermal regenerator washing out most of his continued chattering with the nurses and Dax. 

I sensed Sisko’s approach before I could see or hear him, the tone in the room shifting to readiness when the others saw him arrive. I couldn’t help sitting up a little straighter, Dax’s hands returning to their usual attentive position behind her back. The Commander’s face was grim and hard, a catalyst to the slow-building unease in the room. All communications to Bajor had just been cut off. The coup had begun in earnest. My home was in danger again.

All at once, I felt a clarity wash over me, like I’d found myself dropped onto a familiar, well-worn path. This was clarity, this was something I could handle. This wasn’t about being useless, it was a purpose. The same purpose I’d been fighting for my whole life. Rising to my feet felt like a homecoming, and I batted the dermal regenerator away, making a point to be gentle. I’d missed this feeling, the desperate urgency that makes everything else fade into the background. The mission, the singular goal. Freedom, Bajor, my home. 

I met Sisko’s level gaze, chin held high, like I’d done many times before. Eager, so refreshingly eager for another chance to prove myself. Sisko bore little resemblance to Shakaar, but it was the same Kira with the same urgent clarity who stood up ready for a mission, unified across multiple disparate moments in time. The Commander had called an emergency meeting in Ops, and I cast a glance over at Dax’s battle-ready face while I answered his announcement.

“Lead the way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to keep Bareil and Kira as friends for the purposes of the story, mostly because I didn't want to write their romantic relationship! (Fanfic exists in a wonderful imaginative space where we can play with canon, and I'm taking advantage of that creative leeway!) However, I still think he's a significant person in her life, y'know? She's been through a lot, and he can understand that in a way that most others can't because of shared lived experiences, so I think a friendship with him would still be something Kira would care about dearly.
> 
> Also Kira's anger at Bashir's suggestion to talk to a Federation counselor is not a reflection of my opinion on counseling or therapy in general! Therapy is great for those who want it! However, it isn't imperative for healing, and there's no single "correct" way to care for oneself. Everyone had different needs and different comfort levels. I think Kira, at this point, would absolutely *hate* being pushed into talking to a random Federation stranger, that's just not where she's at right now in her journey.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading! :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a bit shorter and was surprisingly difficult to write. Turns out writing witty banter doesn't come naturally! I'd been working on it for a week or so, and my confidence was starting to deflate since I was having trouble with this chapter, but then I wrote the next chapter and I Really Loved that one, so it motivated me to push through!
> 
> It's time for more exploration-of-Kira's-memories, and more introspection! Yay! This chapter (and the next one) are set during Season 2 Episode 3 - The Siege.
> 
> I don't have any specific content warnings for this chapter either! Enjoy!

The energy in Ops was tense but alive, alive with a purpose I hadn’t felt since I was back on Bajor with a knife in my hand and my goal sitting heavy and gleaming in my chest like a medal of valor. Perhaps the energy came from Li Nalas’s presence in our midst. It felt so deeply right to strategize alongside the spirit of the Bajoran Resistance, a true hero, a living emblem for all we fought for. My heart was perched in my chest at the helm of my throat, thrumming with the rhythm of combat boots drumming the earth. I’d missed this, this glorious sense of purpose, the life-and-death urgency nipping at my heels, driving me forward, pushing me higher. 

The Prophets had truly blessed us, blessed Bajor, with Li’s guidance. I had the time to mull that over, to give thanks, while sitting wedged next to Dax on the crowded evacuation ship. In between prayers of thanks, I called for comfort for those around me. The tangle of evacuees, some yelling, some crying, others sitting silently, holding their losses in their hollow eyes, was a deeply familiar sight. Soft and anchoring, like a threadbare blanket from my childhood.

Being on Jeraddo felt like returning home to Bajor, the Bajor in my memories. The second Dax and I materialized on the surface, the hot, stale air blowing through the long-abandoned refugee camp nearly brought tears to my eyes. This was real in a way that nothing else, not the orderly hustle of Deep Space Nine nor the serenity of the monastery gardens, ever felt. The thin film of dust in my mouth, the gritty, earthy taste felt like salvation. I’m lost in thought, staring at the dirt clouds that dance up around my boots, when Dax’s voice rings through the silence.

“You said we’re heading to a base, correct? I’m not reading any buildings near our location, you’re sure we’re in the right place?” I turn to face her, repressing an amused chuckle at how out of place she looked. Her off-duty clothes shone too brightly in the slanted sunlight, her eyes practically glued to that precious tricorder. Her dappled brow was furrowed in confusion, dotted with glinting sweat in the late-afternoon warmth. All I could think was how funny it looked to see her in such an unfamiliar environment. Until now, Jadzia Dax, armed with her charm and her wit, managed to seamlessly fit into whatever surroundings she found herself in. I’m used to feeling too loud, too sharp, misplaced in most situations. Of course I’d feel so at home in the one place where she seemed to not fit in at all.

“We’re already here Lieutenant – this was a _Resistance_ base, we didn’t build armories or barracks, we set up wherever we could.” The mild frustration in my voice was coated in amused tone – I was at home here, the familiarity made me feel generous. Besides, Dax so stubbornly insisted on showing up and sticking around during my rare and inconvenient weak moments. If she was going to keep that habit up, she was also going to see my strength. Navigating an old Resistance base under threat of death? That’s a particular strength of mine, a talent I’ve honed all my life.

I pushed us forward, urgency singing in my step, passing corners and small nooks full of discarded old rag-blankets pushed to the side of the rows of carefully scraped hollows in the dirt for sleeping. Dax’s footfalls pause intermittently, taking note of what’s left behind. Sweat blooms fresh on her brow and she swipes at it distractedly with the back of a dusty hand, lost in thought. This is reality, for the many outside of Starfleet’s benevolent reach. They need to recognize that. She needs to recognize that.

“Although,” I added, feeling emboldened by my own familiarity and her clear discomfort, “The camp I grew up in wasn’t nearly as nice as this”. I could tell from the spacing between the dirt-hollows that this camp wasn’t as crowded as the one I remember from my youth. Families could bunk close together, with enough space between each family group to give some semblance of privacy and ownership of one’s own space. The rocky outcroppings would have provided some protection from the rain and the sun. With a Resistance base located so close nearby, the people here likely could have lived with some autonomy and protection from the Cardassians. Resistance cells did their best to set up where they anticipated little Cardassian interference. A camp this big suggests that the area was often overlooked by them. Families could have mostly stayed together, children could have grown up among their people, knowing a tentative peace. 

Dax’s gaze follows mine, I know she doesn’t understand, doesn’t see the relative comforts I see. She looks around and all she sees is a history of despair. Her breathing is measured like she’s working hard to conceal her confusion, her lack of understanding, her pity. Those blue eyes look glazed over, listening to overlapping internal voices perhaps? Each individual lifetime of hers, fighting to share its own analysis of the situation. I’m grateful she had the tact to remain quiet, to try to pretend she understands, to look around at the long-empty camp, trying to see what I see.

I don’t remember much of the camp where I was raised, but I do remember it being crowded. My brothers and I slept in one warm, wiggling pile, sharing one bunk next to our parents. It was always too dark to see clearly, the dirty faces of nearby children and families blurring into pale smears against the shadows. I can still recall the way the thick air tasted, a heavy and choking soup of sweat and sickness. It was large and sprawling, I remembered thinking it stretched to the ends of Bajor itself when I was small. The Cardassians were frequent visitors.

A soft-jealous feeling twisted in my gut when I looked around, picturing the families that once lived here. I can’t picture my childhood, but I can remember my father’s absences. For weeks at a time, Reon, Pohl, and I would curl up to sleep next to an empty bunk, tangling into a knot out of habit. He would return after weeks, hair smelling like acrid ore, and would be so exhausted he’d sleep like he was dead. I didn’t understand his absence back then, why they needed his labor for so long, but now it made perfect sense. A fractured family was easier to control. It takes less work to strip children of their pride and identity when they can barely recognize their own parents.

“Kira, what is that!” Dax yelped in the silence, breaking my focus. The Trill was midway through a quasi-acrobatic leap-scuttle backwards when I finally pinpointed the motion that’d startled her, its hairy legs skittering from rock to rock.

“Oh that? That’s a _paluku_ – the Bajoran moons are full of ‘em!” I chuckled, watching the large arachnid with a strange feeling of glee. It’d been years since I’d seen one of them, thankfully. They’re big and they’re fast, but generally unthreatening. The Cardassians _hated_ them—perhaps that’s another reason this Resistance camp escaped oversight for so long. Dax didn’t seem reassured by my amusement, her eyes wide and hair sticking up like a frightened hara-cat. In a move that was decidedly un-Dax-like, she leapt forward in a few quick steps, crossing the distance between the two of us to half-hide behind my shorter form.

In her new position, Dax was so close that I could feel her exhale hot and damp against the back of my neck when she let out a sharp, uneasy laugh. A warm-soft feeling uncurled somewhere inside my chest at the sensation. It was the hiding-behind-me, I told myself. I liked the idea of her trusting that I would protect her. Any deeper analysis would need to wait.

“Oh I supposed you used to make them your pets, and, uh, sing songs about them around the campfire?” Ah, there it was, her seemingly-unstoppable drive to crack jokes about absolutely anything. Perhaps the humor was an attempt to regain some dignity from her episode of yelping-and-hiding just moments ago. I paused, turning to face her with a half-smirk, meeting her shiny blue eyes head-on in a challenge. She may be famous for her wit, but I couldn’t help putting up a fight of my own. Especially on my turf.

“No. We used to eat them.” I knew I’d won when I saw the humor—and the color—drain from her face. The ship was just ahead, so I took my small victory and lurched the door open, the metal screeching in protest. I didn’t think Dax’s apprehensive expression could get any more comical, but the aghast look she gave me as I swiped spiderwebs from the consoles would have made me belly-laugh if we weren’t on a mission. If we weren’t on a mission, I would have probably teased her and her pampered Starfleet sensibilities with far less restraint. This was the first time I’d ever seen her so disgruntled, so not-in-control, and for some unexplainable reason it made me giddy. I knew she could take the joking, she’d probably even celebrate it coming from me. She’d take it as proof that her and her tenacity were finally chipping away at my tough, crusty exterior. Not now though. Now, we had a mission, now we had a plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Also, I've caved and made a Tumblr (though I'm still not entirely sure how Tumblr works) so you can follow me there at rommunist_manifesto for DS9 memes I think are funny, and the occasional fic updates (my URL is inspired by the ICONIC scene in Bar Association where Rom quotes the Communist Manifesto to Quark)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally going to be a part of the last chapter, but it ultimately got too long and I figured two separate chapters was better than one unwieldy one. I really liked writing this chapter! I loved getting to dive into the more hurt-comfort-y stuff! Hopefully y'all enjoy reading it too! :)
> 
> I'll put in a content warning for descriptions of injury/broken bones specifically, and then a bit of grief near the end (Li Nalas dies in canon and I didn't think it was worth changing that here).

Everything was going to plan. Mostly. Honestly, the plan had just been to get to Bajor and deal with whatever came up when it did. I, personally, felt it was foolproof. Dax, based on her frantic squawking, was less enthusiastic about it. But I was the one in the pilot’s chair and I was the one with a lifetime of experience flying these raiders. With the controls in my hands, I was fifteen again, running on anger and the sheer exhilaration. It was both a fond memory, and second nature. A new sensor started malfunctioning every twelve seconds, but none of it mattered. I was flying, I was in my comfort zone. The world was shaking and rattling around me, and I was at home.

A blast sent us lurching, kicking me forward like a boot against my head, and I reeled us back, nose to the sky. Dax was frantic, but I only felt calm. I could envision the seconds unfolding, I knew exactly what would come next. I could picture us, sharply banking, barrelling towards the enemy with phasers alight. The noise in the cabin was deafening, a constant roaring in my ears, so I tore my eyes away from the sky in front of me to look back at Dax, my face split into a rare grin.

“Fire Lieutenant! I’ll aim us, you shoot!” Some small, youthful, fiery place within me hoped she was impressed by my skills. It had been years since my last firefight, I’m glad I hadn’t lost my touch. We were doing pretty well considering we had no functioning sensors – external or internal – and no phaser controls at all. I’d like to see Starfleet fly like this. They may have had formal pilot training, but I’d been doing this since I was a child, motivated by the threat of death. The usually-confident officer behind me was scrambling for the controls, wide-eyed as she attempted to peel herself off of the ship’s ceiling. I took some pity and toned down the acrobatic flying, banking sharply to pull us out of our hair-raising loop. My stomach was plastered to my diaphragm and my ears were ringing, and I offered an adrenaline-fueled smirk as an apology to Dax.

“Sorry ‘bout that Lieutenant – is this a better shot?” I brought us around, steadying the shaking machinery while our phaser fire skated across the hull of the larger Bajoran assault vessel. Dax was focused now, face poised and breathtaking, her instinct steadying her hands as the controls beneath us both rattled. After a few near-misses, she eventually hit her mark on their port nacelle. The bright orange flames felt like victory, triumph so delicious it almost made me forget I was fighting my own people. I grinned back at Dax, whose sweaty face was radiant, disbelieving, shining with respect, smiling with glee. Gone was her expression of alarm, replaced with a beguiled recognition. Now she could truly see me. The feeling of victory over our enemy paled in comparison to the feeling I felt looking at her now, glorious and breathless, filling me with fire. 

I barely had the chance to re-center the controls before we took that last hit. The deafening noise spluttered to a stop as the raider shook like a plaything. That’s when I knew we were in trouble. I could fly a ship that was mostly non-functional, with parts falling off and alarms blaring, but a working engine was a necessity. The crash-landing was, unfortunately, not one of my finer moments as a pilot. I could barely yell at Dax to brace for impact before we hit, the force crumpling the air out of my chest in one sharp rush.

There are many things I can’t remember anymore. Pain and fear and stress have a way of mixing together and dissolving away moments as they happen. The instant we crashed, mercifully, was one of those moments. Everything was blurry, the world was upside-down and smelling of smoke. All I can recall clearly is reaching down. My leg was sore, so I stretched down to brace against the top of my left thigh. Or not. My hand was on my inner thigh. That’s not where my inner thigh was supposed to be. A wave of nausea rose in my gut and I slammed my eyes shut, trying to forget. Trying to forget the awkward not-angle, the way my leg hung open and twisted.

Hands grabbed my shoulders, my underarms, dragging me backwards, and I’m shivering. My blood’s gone cold. My limbs are uncooperative. I’m trying to stay still but it’s cold, freezing cold all of a sudden and I can’t keep from shaking. It’s harvest season on Bajor, it’s never this cold. My leg hurts, I’m vaguely aware. I was being dragged backwards and there was a horrible pleading noise in my ears. It was low-pitched and rumbling-raw, a chorus of _no-stop-please-hurts-please-stop-no_ turning over and over like a river current. Rushing over my brain, relentless and cold, grinding at the smooth-stones and coming away dust. The ground beneath me shifted my hips and shook a feral sob loose. The noise caught in my throat, ragged and desperate. The noise was me. Were all of the noises me? I bit my lip as the backwards-dragging continued. The light here was different, brighter but still dim, still grey-black around the edges. I’m still shivering, it can’t be this cold.

Someone was yelling something. It sounded like my name, if someone had run my name through a series of audio distortion filters on a waterlogged, dying computer. I didn’t look down, determined to remain unaware of my leg. That whole half of my body felt like ice and wood anyways, not useful. Through the light, still bruise-colored in my eyes, I see spots like minnows, shining with sweat, swimming in my vision. She moved closer, spots growing in size. I couldn’t hold my gaze steady. I let it drift, from her startling eyes to her lips and back again.

“Kira, there’s been an accident, do you know where we might be?” Her lips danced through the word-shapes, clear like writing. I tried to force a nod but the movement gets lost in the shivering. Her upper lip was damp with sweat, how is she sweaty when I’m so cold? Those eyes were no longer looking into mine, they’re distant. Looking over me and running through calculations, guessing at our location, inferring the time from the sun in the sky. Looking at my leg and working out our chances of making it to the Chamber of Ministers.

“Leave me… Bajor’s more important…” The words sounded like wind whistling against my teeth and dry lips. She heard them anyway. I know because her jaw clenches, her eyes flash defiantly. Stupid, stubborn Trill. I’m going to die here, but a free Bajor doesn’t have to die here. The deep-cold-shivering feeling gripped me tighter. It’s a reminder that, despite my years in the Resistance and my lifetime under Cardassian Occupation, I’d never been hurt this bad. Dax makes no move to leave, instead she hauled my shoulders into her lap. The faint hint of warmth registered somewhere deep in my brain.

“My plan is to save you _and_ Bajor, now. Rest a minute.” She ordered, smiling down at me with that perfect, stubborn smile. Her arm was laying over my chest, gripping my shoulders and trying to steady the near-constant shaking. I could feel the pain flaring up, more noticeable with the passage of time, pinning my legs down like weights. Her fingers brush over my forehead, coming away damp with sweat. Clammy-cold but sweating, never a good sign. “You’re in shock Kira, I’m not going anywhere.” She spoke softer now. Her hand moved back and forth, wiping my brow and my cheeks dry with the hem of her sleeve, murmuring something foreign and soothing under her breath.

“You’re being stubborn Dax… being silly… finish the mission.” I urged. I knew I wouldn’t be going any further. I think back to the Resistance, to the primary rule we lived by. Carry out the mission, no matter the cost. We were all likely to die anyways, the least we could do was to die for something. I’d have told her such if I could get my mouth and my brain to cooperate. The initial shock was receding, and the fresh-flaring pain was making it difficult to focus.

The Trill made a soft tsking noise intended to hush me, patiently dismissive. “The sun is setting, it’ll be easier for us _both_ to move around undetected when it’s dark.” I shifted my weight back against the ground with a frustrated huff. This was getting us nowhere. She’d apparently gotten some idea, and hovered around the small clearing, mind already fast at work. She gathered bark that’d already sloughed off the trees, creating a small pile, clearly attempting to fashion some kind of splint.

“Have you lost your mind? My hip is broken, y-you think a few sticks are going to help me?” I hissed, cringing as she laid a hand on my thigh. She’d assembled a bundle of dry sticks next to her bark-pile, and was working on tearing a strip of fabric from the hem of her sleeve.

“Julian’s my best friend, surely of all the stories he’s told me, I’ve managed to pick up some relevant medical knowledge!” She joked back, clearly trying to rile me up. I was just about to retort sharply when firm hands braced against my thigh, and my reply was drowned out by a guttural moan of agony. My vision went dark and spotty again, but I made sure to hiss _“Dax!”_ with my remaining conscious thought. She looked up from where she was attempting to bind my now-straightened broken leg immobile, a sheepish look on her face.

“Sorry, sorry, I knew it would hurt, but I thought getting it over with would be the best. Like ripping off a bandage, right?” Her first-aid complete, she turned gentle again, holding my torso and stroking my hair as pain and chills rattled through me once more. The sun had mostly set and Bajor’s twin moons were shining low in the sky, reflecting a cool light over the underbrush. Dax looked quite pretty in the low light, I thought. It seemed to make the pale skin beneath her spots glow against her dark hair, which fell like an inky river over her shoulder. Her soft-smiling face reflected the moonlight back into the sky, a small and simple answer to a cosmic call. I knew the pain was getting to me now, making me wax poetic about a colleague like she’s a figure in a myth. I heard her chuckle, her eyes winking closed in a hearty laugh.

“A strange time for such sweet words, isn’t it Major?” Dax grinned, mischief dancing in her eyes. Somehow my face, pallid from fighting the pain, managed to flush bright red.

“That wasn’t… talking in my head?” I gritted out, struggling to remain functional despite the pain and the additional, unnecessary embarrassment.

“You’re more than a little out of it.” Her hands were back in my hair, strong fingers and short nails trailing over my scalp. I felt my hair sticking to my forehead and temples in damp clumps, I’m sure I looked just as awful as I felt. Dax was smiling though. Always smiling. “I maybe only heard every fifth word anyways. You’re pretty incoherent, Major, we’ll need to work on that before we get to the Chamber of Ministers.”

I tried to retort back, but the tired feeling that’d been threatening for what felt like hours was too strong. My lips were heavy and awkward, unwilling to form any shapes or sounds beyond a weak “shhhhh”. Something crumbled open within me, a feeling like a pit. All my carefully-maintained courage, my strength, dissolved into dread. I’m going to die here. I’m going to die, and The Circle will win. 

Dax, with those otherworldly eyes, seemed to read my thoughts. Her arms wound around me, pulling me against her form with a deceptive strength. The movement was painful, shaking loose a ragged breath from my tired chest, but the embrace felt safe. Warm. A welcome feeling after sitting in shock, cold and shivering, for what felt like hours. Dax started humming again, the same soft, low, unfamiliar tune. There was a random melody to it, subtle and burbling like the flow of a creek, splashing over seemingly-disconnected notes. I couldn’t distinguish any words; the language wasn’t one I’d heard before. It felt ancient, unconscious on her part. A gift from one of her previous lives, perhaps.

I closed my eyes, focusing on the scrunch of my eyelids, the tension in my forehead, Dax’s sweet but tuneless humming, the ten distinct spots on my back where her finger-pads pressed firmly. I was trying my best to dig through my insides, looking for a shred of my own stubborn tenacity to spark against the comforting feeling of being held, to ignite and keep me going. Instead, I heard a heavy crunch in the distance. Dax fell silent at the same time. Someone was out there. The Lieutenant pulled back, wearing a mask of Starfleet urgency and focus. A scattering of quiet footfalls followed, heavy boots dragging through leaves and over roots. Heavy _military_ boots.

“Well, I was hoping to delay this longer, but now it’s inevitable” Dax whispered, cheek pressed against my ear. Her arms shifted, looping under my armpits, and before I could say anything back, I was caught off-guard by that classic Dax smirk.

“By the way Major, you look pretty in the moonlight too.” She quipped, that grin burning itself into my memory. I was baffled, embarrassment rising in my chest as she quoted my accidental slip from earlier, fear thick in my throat at the approaching footsteps, heartbeat thundering as I lay there, trapped by my injury and unable to run. Amidst all my distraction, I hadn’t noticed Dax’s actions until It was too late for me to protest. All at once, she shifted her weight into her heels, springing to her feet while hauling me upwards off the ground.

I didn’t feel the pain at first, too focused on the embarrassment and the fear and my annoyance at her joking at such an inopportune time. I didn’t feel the pain at first, but then I felt it all at once. White light exploded behind my eyes and my breath died in my throat as cold agony dug its claws in. I could taste the gnashing of jagged bone-against-bone, metallic and sharp and sour. As quickly as the pain rushed in, it was devoured by the darkness threatening at the corners of my eyes. In one last conscious moment I called on the Prophets for safety, before I went limp in now-familiar arms.

* * *

We won, we accomplished our mission, but it ultimately felt like more of a defeat. Li Nalas was dead, I was exhausted, and Bajor had come frighteningly close to falling back into the hands of its greedy oppressors. I know Sisko wanted to celebrate, its his job as a good Commanding Officer to try to lift the spirits of his crew, to reassure and comfort them in the fact that they’d won. But I knew he also well aware of the price we’d paid. I was grateful for his understanding, even if that gratitude was buried under layers and layers of weariness and grief. Sweet, familiar grief.

It was comforting, in a weird way, being on the station. The raucous cheering in Quark’s, the burbling chatter along the Promenade. Everything felt so normal. Like I could squeeze my eyes shut and convince myself that the previous few days never happened. Prophets, I wished I could convince myself that none of it ever happened. The death chant was still ringing freshly in my ears, playing in a repetitive loop in the back of my mind. I couldn’t forget that.

The patch-up job on Bajor left my body mostly functional. Bashir had immediately offered to take care of the remaining swelling, the lingering stiffness, that hollow, stubborn ache, but I’d refused. The physical pain made sense in the context of all this loss. It made it easier to carry the grief. It made it harder to forget, it forced me to reckon with the reality of it all. It also left me limping, my gait noticeably ragged as I dragged myself out of Quark’s and in the direction of my quarters. I’d attended the public service in the Temple, watched them light the _duranja_ and say their prayers. Now I wanted to mourn in private, to focus on the flickering of my own candle and let the weight of the day roll off my shoulders like rain.

“Major.” A soft voice made me pause, wobbling a bit on my injured leg as I struggled to shift my weight mid-step. Dax was striding towards me tentatively, head dipped low, all clean lines and new beginnings in her fresh-pressed Starfleet uniform. She peered up through her brows, cautious and respectful. “I’m sorry, about Li Nalas. It sounds like he was a truly honorable man.”

“He was.” I murmured, lost in thought. Bajor has lost so many truly honorable people. My father came to mind, his face and Li’s face and hundreds of fallen comrades’ faces all blurring into one confusing mix of indiscriminate features. Each face no longer distinct, each one just one of many notes along the same melody, a rising and falling chant. _Ahn-kay ya, ay-ya vasu. Coh-ma-ra, di-nay-ya_. Repeating and repeating until it sounds like silence, until you can’t remember hearing anything else. Dax’s hands laid on my forearms like a new note played overtop of an ancient rhythm, she jostled me back into the moment.

“I’m glad to have you back, Kira.” Her voice was soft and urgent, an unspoken plea running beneath the words. She says she’s glad I’m back, her tone begs me not to leave again. For a second, it occurs to me that she carried my dead weight for the better part of an hour through the forests of Bajor, not stopping until she found Bareil and the other monks. I owe her my life as well as Bajor’s freedom. She fought for both of us. I’m suspended in this moment, held gently by her gravity. Still tired, but finding it took less energy to exist here, adjacent to her shimmering blue atmosphere, her promise of new worlds and safe haven. I was standing on the Promenade, but some part of me was dangling in space with her, my sadnesses and heartbreaks sweeping close in my reach like asteroids. I was a tired little moon and she shines softly, beautifully over my horizon.

I knew she wanted to offer comfort; I could see it in her eyes. A multitude of voices were rushing and chattering behind twin blue pools, offering suggestions and lending their words. The shyness then, with which she took my hand and squeezed, is all her. A brief hint of Jadzia, the smart timid girl, flashed silvery and magical like a minnow in a stream. One of many, moving in choreographed unison, older than time. She reminds me of Bajor, in that way. Ageless and ancient, a natural wonder, constantly giving. Protective of me in a way that feels inevitable and safe. She made me feel aflame in the same way, left me willing to sacrifice, eager to burn brightly and defiantly for.

“Jadzia.” I whispered, my hushed voice mingling with the bitter-sweet grief, the throbbing pain, the ceaseless death-chant, the soft-noise of the promenade singing like river-water. All of it came together, a wordless melody swelling to a crescendo in my mind. She looked up at me, as if she was aware of the moment, as if she could hear the music within me. Her eyes, crisp with clarity, fell into harmony with it all. I squeezed her hands in return, a response to her unspoken question. This is all I can offer you now, this is all I have left to give. Her grasp lightened, aware that I’d step back in a moment and continue to my quarters. Understanding that all I needed now, all she could give me, was an evening of rest. Before she let go, I murmured, a soft offering pressed to her palm like feathery-edged old paper.

“You can call me Nerys.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I truly think Kira was showing off *just* a bit when she was flying that spaceship in the episode, I don't think she would have passed up the chance to show those Starfleet pilots how kick-ass she can be. Especially since, at this point in the story, Kira knows she likes Dax to some extent, so I think she'd be extra motivated to be Tough and Cool (right up until the point when she breaks her hip).
> 
> Also, I have never broken a hip, so the whole Kira-in-shock thing was instead based off of my experience dislocating my knee a few years ago (I don't remember much aside from it being Not Fun, and that I was shivering uncontrollably the whole time while also being sassy to the first responders) so I apologize if it's not medically accurate!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! I'm back at it again with more tender hurt/comfort (someone's going to have to ban me from using the word soft to describe these two!) This chapter directly follows Season 2 Episode 4 (Invasive Procedures), after they stop Verad and return Dax to Jadzia - I figured it was a good chance to flip the dynamic and have Kira suddenly be put in a position where she needs to be there for Dax.
> 
> I also think this is the point in the story when I'm going to start relying less on canon events, and just letting these two characters go off on their own adventures and interact. At this point (both canonically, and in this fic) Dax is clearly trying to befriend Kira, and Kira's slowly started to trust Dax, and I think that's a lovely starting point for them to branch off and tell their own story!
> 
> No specific content warnings for this chapter!

“Dax to Kira” My combadge crackled to life, a tinny voice ringing out into the relative-calm of Ops. It was surprisingly quiet here, a jarring change after the chaos of the day. The violent plasma storm coupled with the attempted kidnapping-slash-murder had left everyone itching to leave the moment their shift ended. A relentless pounding had taken up residence behind my right eye hours ago, somewhere in the middle of coordinating the second wave of returning evacuation vessels. The writing on the PADDs in front of me was slowly blurring together, letters seeming to crawl about the screen like insects. Sisko had left an hour ago, but I was determined to finish the day’s work. I couldn’t quite tear myself away, the tense-buzzing of residual stress keeping me glued to my console. I tapped my combadge, feeling its acknowledgement chirp against my palm.

“Kira here.” I called out, voice echoing through the circular room. Dax, I presumed, had been sent to her quarters after being dismissed from Julian’s care. I’d been wondering about her, absentmindedly, since Sisko had returned from the Infirmary with a weary-but-grateful expression, unshed tears glinting in the corners of his eyes. She meant a lot to him. She seemed to have a knack for worming her way into a coveted, sentimental space in everyone’s heart.

“Major, could I speak to you in my quarters? There’s something I’d like to say to you.” Exhaustion was notable in her voice, even over the comms. Beneath the slight electronic distortion, there was a raw sound, rough like scraped knees.

“Of course Lieutenant. On my way.” I was relieved to have an excuse to leave Ops, finally. I generally enjoyed my work, and I took pride in my dedication to it, but it had been a long day. The smell of O’Brien’s singed uniform still seemed to linger in the air. It had been hard to focus for most of the end of the shift – some instinctive-part of me awake and anxious, perched heavy in my chest. I couldn’t stop glancing at the turbolifts, darting my hand to my phaser at the slightest misplaced whirr or beep. I’d always felt so protected here – surrounded by shields and sensors, not prone on a cliffside or running defenseless from Cardassian patrols. Verad had forced his way past all that, into our inner circle, dangerous and threatening, disrupting it all. I missed the feeling of relative safety. It all felt violated now.

I tried to let the soothing hum of the turbolift reassure me, I wanted to leave the anxiety behind, but I couldn’t shake it. It’d set up camp in my chest, displacing everything, following me through the hallways of the habitat ring and stealing my room to breathe.

The door chimed softly, sliding open sharply with no greeting from within. I’d never seen Dax’s quarters before, but I assumed they weren’t usually this dark. The dim starlight from the window outlined the edges of her furniture with a vague, silvery glow. I couldn’t see her initially, hidden motionless in the shadows, but she glanced up as the door slid closed behind me, her blue eyes glinting in the last flash of the hallway light. The unknown-ness of the moment set me on edge, my body poised to respond to a threat despite my conscious mind knowing that I was safe. I couldn’t help scanning the room, trying to appraise the situation.

“Kira… thank you for coming.” Her voice sounded dry and crackly, falling limp in the space between us. Dax was always smooth and vibrant, always larger-than-life in both a literal and figurative sense. I’d never seen her looking so small, so fragile as she did at that moment. She was slumped on the floor, back half-pressed against the leg of the couch behind her, curled in on her abdomen like a wounded animal. There was a mostly-full synthale bottle in front of her, tall and stark against the smooth plateau of the tabletop. The glass adjacent to the bottle lay on its side, a small pool of clear liquid resting where it fell. That explained the smell, eye-watering and chemical, hanging in the air and stinging at my nose. 

“I didn’t have any. I know it would be irresponsible so soon after surgery, I just thought…” Dax trailed off, eyes cloudy. Her hands twitched towards the mess on the table but couldn’t seem to leave their place overtop of her symbiont, resting just below her chest. The ethanol-smell was almost nauseating, concentrating in the small main room of her quarters. It made the throbbing behind my eye return, wicked and sore. Despite my lingering uncertainty, I couldn’t repress the urge to clean – to close the bottle, pick up the upset glass, and wipe up the spill. It was a pragmatic urge, one borne out of a lifetime’s worth of unsolvable circumstances. Most situations are beyond help, but misery is easier to bear with busy hands. The silence between us stretched thin, making me feel fidgety.

“I just wanted to apologize. Y’know, for almost getting you taken hostage.” Her eyes, downcast, fell away from where they’d briefly met mine. The words sounded like they were being torn from her throat. There was so much shame in her posture and her voice, I was taken aback by it.

“Dax, you know that wasn’t your fault. That was Verad.” She flinched when I addressed her as Dax. I felt awkward and too-tall in my current position, standing a few paces away from where she sat, but I also didn’t know what else to do with myself.

“I can still _feel_ it, though. I can feel how little he cared. I couldn’t do anything to stop it. Neither could Dax. Maybe they didn’t care to, I don’t know.” She trailed off, staring at her slightly-shaking hands. “I remember grabbing you by the arm, shoving you along the corridors, I remember what it felt like not to care at all about you and it was _awful_.” Her voice cracked on the last word, ‘awful’ tumbling out as an unsteady half-sob. Those hands, the ones she was holding up and searching for signs of guilt, raked through her loose, dark hair, shuddering with frustration. I’d never heard her refer to the symbiont separately from herself before. Her identity, the pieces that made up her self-hood were confusing to me at the best of times, and the events of today seemed to have shifted that balance.

Standing like this definitely felt awkward now. I wanted to do _something_ but I didn’t know what. The clearest thought in my mind was a desire to take her into the palms of my hands like she was small and delicate as a soft-furred field-rodent and to hold on tightly, steadying her quivering, sheltering her beneath my fingers. Dax isn’t that small and delicate though, so that instinct made no sense. How can you shelter something so much larger than yourself, so unknowable and grand? It was frustrating, how she always seemed to know the right things to do in these sorts of situations. She’d been a comfort to me on so many previous occasions, the least I could do was offer her the same kindness.

I’d definitely been standing still for too long, wordless and lost in my own thought. Internally, I cursed at myself, do something you useless, too-violent terrorist. Tentatively, I sunk to my knees, the movement causing a stiff-soreness to flare up as my recently-broken hip and old, poorly-healed wounded-knee each voiced their complaints. I settled myself cross-legged on the carpet, loosely mirroring her posture – that was probably a good idea, right? At least then we were on the same level, now I could crane my head to try to meet her gaze.

“Jadzia, none of that was _your_ choice. None of it was your fault. If it wasn’t for Verad, none of it would have even happened.” I was fighting my own instinct to yell, to get my point across with the full intensity of my emotion. My words rang out, still surprisingly-loud in the quiet room, deep and forceful like I was marching them into battle. She didn’t need that. She didn’t need force. This wasn’t something that could be ordered away, despite how desperately I wished it was that simple. 

“The memories do make it hard though, I know. I’m sorry.” I offered, placing the words gently on the floor between us like a gift. To my own ears, my voice was deep and heavy, carrying a sad truthfulness I rarely shared this openly. Tears stung my eyes at the sound, but I forced them away and watched how Dax’s jaw muscles heaved and strained beneath her spotted skin, her lips pulled into a thin, pale line. This is about her, not about me. I tried to pull myself away from my own pain, fighting the inevitable, focusing all my energy into this long, silent moment.

“I can remember everything he did; I can’t stop reliving it. I wish it would stop, I want it all gone.” She was begging, to whom I wasn’t sure. Her voice, so low and desperate, pulled me closer until I was half-kneeling half-sitting by her side. The sob-rattle of her breath, the feverish-warmth rolling off of her in waves, they brought me back to countless grey-dawn mornings in my resistance cell. Nobody begged this openly back then, but they knew pain regardless. It woke them from slumber, startling them and their bunkmates awake, making them shake with emotion. I remember many times, reaching a hand out or shuffling over sleepily until my flank pressed against theirs. I remember fighting to stay solid and stable for them while they fell apart. It was always wordless, nobody ever spoke about those dreams, nobody ever murmured sweet nothings. We just lent our own presence, unquestioning and firm. 

Dax, however, seemed to need more than wordless silence. She wasn’t a freedom fighter, she wasn’t used to trauma as a constant presence. She was a Science Officer, shining in crisp teals, she was supposed to be curious and trusting and inquisitive, not guarded. The exhausted Lieutenant let out a staggering breath, one swooping over a series of hiccupping sobs that threatened to drown out her next words.

“Please Nerys, help me make it stop.” Her directness, her bold fragility was unfamiliar and shocking to me. It was funny then, how willingly I opened up to her. It felt inevitable, like a habit, my arms falling open as she leaned into my space. Her face pressed below my collarbone so hard it could bruise, crying breaths coming faster and more ragged now.

“I wish I could Jadzia but I can’t, no one can.” It was a fact. I couldn’t take away my own memories, my own trauma, I wasn’t going to lie to her about her own. I felt her shudder violently at that, a fresh wave of sobs shaking loose. Panic sprung to life in my gut, I wasn’t doing this right at all, this isn’t how this is supposed to go. I didn’t know what to do, couldn’t find the right words to say to reassure without glossing over or lying. There’s no comfort in reality, but cruel, violent reality is all I knew.

My arms were tired from being held upright at awkward angles, hovering there since Dax had come closer. I still wasn’t entirely sure what to do with them. I remembered the moments in the hallway, the infirmary, lying injured in the forests of Bajor, and noted a common thread, Dax’s touch. Even in horrible, inescapable situations, she offered me her hands, her embrace. Would that help now? I could try, I suppose. We were alone in her quarters. Nobody else was here to judge me for doing something wrong, for being bad at being comforting. And I wanted to help. That was a fact, one that’d been roaring within me since I first entered this room. I cared about her with the fury of a wildfire, and I wanted to help. I followed that fierce-caring feeling and tentatively wrapped one arm around her, palm flat on her back, the other hand moving to hold her head steady.

“I want to help, Jadzia, I do. I’ll do whatever I can to help. And I’m here. I’ll stay here as long as you’d like.” Those were comforting facts I could offer. Her breathing had steadied, thankfully, and it was enough to make me feel less like a failure. She felt surprisingly small, curled into the little space between my arms and my ribcage. A surprisingly small, fragile creature being held by another. I wondered if this is how Dax feels, small and wise, wholeheartedly trusting the body that holds them. Jadzia sighed, soft and calm, the quiet sound ringing out like a chord in an ancient hymn. I focused on that, the subtle music of her breath, the insistent press of the bumps of her spine against my palm, the unfamiliar soft-spicy perfume of her skin. The latter reminded me of the incense burned in the temple, a reassuring scent. Somehow, despite her professed lack of belief in a higher power, every aspect of her being seemed sacred. It was a curious enigma, one I’m sure I’ll never get the chance to tell her about.

I was startled from my thoughts by her shifting weight, her body fighting the stiffness that’d taken hold in her neck, her limbs, after such a prolonged time sitting in an awkward position. My own back was beginning to ache, and my thighs were going numb from where her weight pressed them into the carpeted flooring. I was growing soft in my time out of the Resistance, clearly. The floor where I sat was infinitely more comfortable than the many caves I’ve slept in.

“Why don’t we get you more comfortable.” I offered, already moving us both towards the long couch a few paces away. I was happy to settle there, on the cushioned surface, but Jadzia seemed gripped with uncertainty now, eyes darting from the space next to me, to my arms, and back. I lifted my hands off of my thighs, an open invitation. Her face, despite being red and tear-stained, lit up brilliantly at the sight. I should have known right then, from the way her watery smile made my heart flip end-over-end, that I was falling for her. I shook it off though, focusing on the heavy weight of her head on my thighs as she lay on her side across the couch.

“I’m sorry about all that earlier. It was silly of me to ask that of you.” _Help me make it stop_ , I remembered. I couldn’t see her face anymore, and I found myself missing it. It was so much harder to talk to someone when you couldn’t read their expressions. I shook my head at her anyways, my idle hands carding through her long, thick hair while she spoke.

“You were upset, and you wanted it to stop. You shouldn’t apologize for that.” I murmured. I’d pleaded similarly, to the Prophets, many years ago, when I was still young and hopeful enough to pray for the possibility of comfort. Jadzia went quiet again, the muscles in the side of her face tensing and pressing against the tops of my legs, obviously mulling something over. I ran my fingers from her scalp to the tips of her hair, watching it fall against my uniform when I reached the ends. It was clear that she wanted to say something more, and I wasn’t sure whether to push it, or leave it be. Instead, I worked on absentmindedly braiding her hair, weaving simple patterns into the brunette locks and watching them come apart when I let go.

“Kira… How do you manage it? How do you carry the memories without them crushing you?” Another braid dissolved as I let it slip from my hands, fighting the sudden tension that flickered to life. This was about her, not about me. I wanted to snap like I always did, lash out like the wounded animal I secretly was. I wanted to hiss ‘ _too close_ ’ and watch her back away, wary of what she’d awakened. But the urge to do so felt toothless, half-hearted. It went against the tentative trust she’d worked to coax out of me. She’s held me when I was injured and in shock, she fought for me and my people, she trusted me to protect her and to be present. I could at least try to trust her with this.

“I don’t. Not always.” My voice fell flat and emotionless, it was easier to feign distance than to really embrace it all. In the time since my hands fell motionless in her hair, Dax had rolled onto her back, looking up at me with wide, apologetic eyes. She looked like she wanted to take her question back, seeing the stress it brought me, but she also seemed to understand that I needed the quiet now. Like any interruption could startle me into shoving everything back into hiding.

“They fade a bit, with time. When I’m busy, sometimes I can’t notice them at all. Other times… other times you can’t do anything other than ride it out, wait for them to fade again.” I looked straight ahead, eyes unfocused, digging the words from some untouched place within me. It was tiring and the emotion was sharp beneath my fingernails, but I needed to unearth them to give them to her. They weren’t hopeful words, but they were truth, and they were trusting. I came back into myself, glancing down into her eyes, holding my offering out to her. Trust, a few hopeless words, that was all I could give. She reached up, catching my hands from where they hovered with unease, tangling her fingers in mine and laying our joined hands on her abdomen overtop of where Dax laid. After the events of today, Jadzia was likely sore, likely protective, but she brought my hands to rest there regardless. She had trust of her own to give me.

“Thank you Nerys.” Her smile was soft and open, still-vulnerable, eyes still-wet. “I know it’s late, but would you mind staying, just a bit longer? I’d like the company.” I wanted to grasp her hands tightly, to respond with a _yes_ , deep and urgent and carrying so many unspoken feelings, but I let the urge pass. It was too heavy, too big for this moment. Add any more emotion, and it would spill all over. I did squeeze her hands, gently, enjoying the way they felt in hers. My hands were capable of so much violence, but I’d never imagined the depth of tenderness they could carry as well. Jadzia was soft, softer than anything I think I’d ever felt, soft and hopeful as a prayer.

“Of course Jadzia. I’d be happy to stay.” I let myself truly feel it, really understand the emotion behind those words. Of course I’d stay, it was worth it to stay. Worth the quivering uncertainty and the gutting vulnerability, worth the headache and the sore legs and the stress. Somehow, she made it all worthwhile. Her and that trust of hers, so freely given, unfolding me and charting my unknowns. Her and those hands, holding me like I was precious, like I was worth the world, like I was more than just my collection of sadness and memories. She was worth it, worth every sacrifice and every hesitantly-offered piece of trust. I couldn’t explain why, not yet, but I knew it was true, I trusted it. This unknown, these hands in mine, felt like a gift from the Prophets. A gift I’d happily share with Jadzia, as long as she’d have me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! I really like writing Kira's more awkward and uncertain side, we don't really get to see much of it in the show! (Like, in a combat situation, she's absolutely confident and fearless, but talking about feelings? Being openly affectionate? Not exactly second nature for her.)
> 
> Let me know what you thought! It may take a while for me to finish the next chapter (I'm supposed to be working on my PhD project proposal, so that'll limit my writing time over the next few weeks) but I'll try to update ASAP. In the meanwhile, feel free to follow my tumblr @rommunist_manifesto, where I'll post updates in the writing process and maybe some more fanart (I just finished a linocut print of Deep Space 9, which can be found there!) :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! This chapter ended up being MASSIVE, I hope y'all enjoy! There wasn't really a convenient place to break it in two, so here's one ~5k word-long hurt/comfort fest (with an ever-present undercurrent of gay yearning).
> 
> This ended up being loosely based on the events of the Season 2 episode "Necessary Evil" - I keep trying to pull away from canon events but there's just so much of Kira's past and personality that the show brings up and doesn't explore! It's hard to resist!
> 
> Content warnings for this chapter include mentions of character death, and descriptions of an anxiety attack/Kira generally Not Doing Well.

Jadzia’s company had slowly become more and more of a constant in my day-to-day. Reliably, at the end of most of our shared shifts in Ops, she’d be waiting for me with a soft smirk and a head full of plans. Usually we’d end up at Quark’s, where I’d get to nurse a Tarkalean tea while Dax would prattle on about whatever happened to wander through her mind. Often it was gossip, some scandalous news she’d overheard from two ensigns stationed at the Science Lab, the romantic mishaps of the Bolian in Engineering, tales of Morn’s rumored past life as a mysterious-and-charismatic space-pirate. Sometimes she’d tell me about her recent experiments, her investigations into the curious subatomic particle phenomena inside the wormhole, or her many desperate attempts to sequence the DNA of the strange rapidly-mutating organic sample she’d brought back from her adventures into the Gamma Quadrant.

Usually, I didn’t understand much of her ramblings, especially when it came to the science-stuff, but her company was nice regardless. I enjoyed the predictability of it—like the pink-red sunrise over Bajor every morning, it was a reliable phenomenon that I could structure my days around. She never pressured me to speak either, which I appreciated more than I was able to admit. After the end of a long shift spent tolerating Gul Dukat’s constant intrusions and putting out both literal and metaphorical fires throughout the station, I was usually buzzing with latent stress and drained of any energy left for conversation. It was soothing, ending my day listening to her animated and carefree chatter, not feeling any obligation to add my own thoughts.

I’d do my best to listen of course, regardless of how tired I was feeling on a given day. Jadzia was so damned determined to befriend me, the least I could do was return her attention. Sometimes though, she’d confuse me with a jargon-filled tangent and I’d lose my focus, suddenly lost in the shiny gleam of her eyes or the way her spots traversed the strong angle of her jaw. It was easy to get lost like that, easier than I’d like to admit. Especially now that I’d experienced the softness of her hair between my fingers, the gentle press of her hands to my face, and the sweet-spicy smell of her off-duty clothes. 

Jadzia would usually catch on after a while, noticing my unfocused eyes lingering too-long on the curve of her neck or the upturn of her lips. Perceptive, as always. She’d usually take that as a cue that she hadn’t explained something fully and would backtrack in her story to the source of my confusion. It embarrassed me when she caught on, but she never commented on it. She’d pause in her storytelling and grin, sparkling and victorious under my too-heavy stare. Before I could apologize, she’d chuckle, eyes shining like she’d just been given a wonderful secret. And the apology would wither in my throat at the sight. It wasn’t _discouraging_ , that cryptic grin of hers. If anything, she seemed to enjoy the attention.

I was distracted again today. Not the usual distraction, the kind of distraction that made her chuckle and smile and coyly brush her fingers against where mine lay on the tabletop. I couldn’t stop thinking about Odo’s realization, about the five-year-old blood on my hands drying, itching, pulling at my skin. I’ve intended to kill many people in my life. I’ve thought about it, planned it methodically, selected my weapon and my approach. I’ve meditated on each and every piece of myself I was willing to sacrifice in order to inch one step closer to freedom for my people. 

I hadn’t intended to kill Vaatrik, that hadn’t been a part of the plan. I’d considered it, of course, I was aware of the risk., He was a collaborator, he chose to sell out his own people to furnish his own lavish lifestyle, he deserved whatever miserable end he got. His death meant there was one less traitor selling us out, I felt accomplished in that. I didn’t feel remorseful. I killed him and I lied, but I made those choices in order to stay alive. Odo wouldn’t understand that – he’d been a privileged observer during the Occupation. Trusted by the Cardassians to carry out their dirty work, distant enough from the Bajorans for them to treat him with a veneer of respect. 

Of course I lied to him, being truthful would have gotten me put to death. He should have known that. Today though, after he’d figured it all out, he stared right through me with a look of grave accusation that almost knocked me off my feet. I saw him weigh the value of justice, truth, and order, against that of my own life. It scared me to wonder what won out in his mind. I couldn’t bear his verdict or his judgment, not after all these years had passed.

“Kira, is everything alright?” Jadzia’s voice shifted in tone, her one hand brushing tentatively against my own in an attempt to get my attention. There was concern in her wide-eyes, no mischief, no borderline-flirtatious-sparkle, none of it. I floundered for a moment to try and cover for my obvious distraction, desperately trying to recall the last thing I remember her saying.

“Sorry, I’m just a little tired. You were saying something earlier – something about a degenerate nucleotide sequence?” I had no idea what she meant by that, and I’m sure she last mentioned it at least five minutes ago, but I just really needed her to take the bait. To go back to her story and ignore how preoccupied I likely looked. I’d been on-edge all day, ever since I heard about the renewed interest in the investigation. Odo figuring out the truth, that had just been the tipping point. 

He knew now, he knew and everyone else would too. Once everyone else knew they’d judge me for it, they wouldn’t be able to help themselves. They’d try to be understanding, wary but pitying, but they wouldn’t understand, none of them could. Because I didn’t regret it. I hadn’t regretted it once in five years. I did what I had to do to survive. None of them would understand that. But then again, none of them knew what it felt like to be in that room. Crouched in his shop, the blanket of shadows ripped from my head as he swung the door open, trapping me like prey. None of them understood how time had stopped, how the fabric of reality stretched out thread-thin between me and him. Nobody else understood the cold-bitter relief that had pooled in my bones when I felt his death-grip on my neck go slack. They would see me as either a pitiful victim or a remorseless killer. I couldn’t decide which of those options I hated more.

Dax, annoyingly-perceptive as always, didn’t seem fooled by the way I’d brushed off her concern. A mix of isolation and panic had taken root in my gut, dislodging the structures I’d built within, crumbling my stoicism and strength beneath its creeping vines. I wondered if she could see the way my composure was eroding, or if the choking thickets of fear were noticeable in my dark eyes. The crowd-noise was growing too loud, as if Quark was ratcheting the volume higher and higher as the seconds pass. None of these people understood, nobody here.

“Nerys, would you like to take a walk with me?” Jadzia’s voice was so low and so soothing, full of kindness, but it landed like an open-handed smack. It’s a cruel joke, she doesn’t understand, she doesn’t know, and she’d inevitably snatch all her kindness away from me once she found out. I couldn’t answer her, I didn’t know what I wanted other than to be free of these memories and this legacy. The raucous conversation around us seemed to grow louder still, and yet it was barely audible over the hoarse-scraping sound of my breathing. If I were here alone I would leave this place. I nodded to Dax, imperceptibly. Please, get me out of here.

She guided me out onto the Promenade, elbows linked, and it reminded me of that time months ago when she saw me in the Habitat ring, reeling from Marritza’s death. She hadn’t entirely understood back then, but she’d stayed. Just as she did then, she now led me through the snaking corridors, the chokingly-small turbolifts. The noise of Quark’s had faded, left behind with my booming, frantic thoughts. Everything felt different now, far-away and vague, muffled like voices through an airlock. Dax was guiding me, moving me through space as if I was floating, cut loose from the artificial gravity.

“Nerys?” She asked, her voice sounding distant. I knew she was there though, standing close and waiting for me to give her some kind of signal. We’re at the door to my quarters. Her eyes are uncertain, swinging between me and the closed door. Despite how far-away and unreal everything felt, it still hurt somewhere inside of me to see her so unsure. It made her seem smaller than she was, so much younger than her three-hundred years of inherited memories. She never looked like this around the others, always wise or charismatic, shimmering with confidence. The tiny part of me that still felt conscious and not drowning under the weight of it all, felt special. She’s unsure for a reason, I reminded myself. She’s waiting for me to let her in or turn her away.

I jerked my arm up towards the sensor to open the door, missing it by a finger-length. I hated the toll that remembering took on my body. If I had been this clumsy during the Occupation, I would have been killed. It’s so deeply inconvenient that it would all get worse now, the first time in my life that my survival is no longer constantly under threat. I couldn’t seem to move my head to look at Dax while repeatedly trying to open the door, but thankfully Dax caught on. She caught my shaking hand mid-motion, guiding it with her own and gently pressing her palm against the back of my hand to open the door. Even her fingers seemed more graceful than my own.

“Come in.” My voice cut off weakly, any additional words getting caught up in my throat and dying there. I could still feel the cold-panic, the chorus of “nobody will understand” ringing over and over again like it would never grow hoarse. But I couldn’t bear to send her away now. If she left, I truly would be alone. She guided me a few steps further, in the direction of the couch, before peeling away to a darkened corner in the room. The sudden loss of contact sent fear leaping back into my throat, I’m alone again, alone and defenseless and at risk. I forced myself to walk the remaining two steps to the couch, suddenly afraid to turn around. Some part of me was terrified I’d feel him, his hand heavy on my shoulder, growling and huffing in anger at the skinny little Resistance girl digging through his things. Instead, Dax reappeared, mug in hand.

“Tarkalean tea. It’s usually your favorite at the end of a long day. You didn’t get to finish the one you ordered at Quark’s.” I wanted to thank her for the kind gesture, but the words were muscled out of the way by a deep, relieved gasp. _Oh_. Vaatrik isn’t here, he’s long-dead. The memories feel real and alive, but he’s not.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Jadzia murmured, her hands having already reclaimed one of mine. I was still caught up in the cycle of fear and uncertainty, leaping at shadows, remembering how I killed him, remembering reality, remembering fear. The omnipresent-but-false sense of danger made my breathing come even sharper, panic flooding my veins like a drug. I tried to think straight, tried to muscle the controls away from panic, to take us out of our nosedive and steady our flight. I tried to ignore the bleating alarms in my mind while I begged myself to remember what safety once felt like.

Safety felt like fire, warm and glowing, flickering against the wind. The thought made me sink somewhere deep into an old memory. Leathery-soft skin cradling a small stub of burning wax, the flame-light throwing stark shadows against the deep creases and the folds between her finger-joints. She was a rare elder, her gravelly voice still retained the soft inflection of an old rural dialect as she spoke of the times before the Cardassians arrived. I was young, and her voice sounded like hope. She died though, a weak light snuffed out. They all did. Of starvation or illness, injury, lack of dignity. I couldn’t even remember her name, her face was just a hazy smudge. I killed her by forgetting, just as much as I killed Vaatrik by acting. Self-preservation felt so hollow, in retrospect. Dax was still waiting, sitting perched at the edge of my awareness.

“M-my candle. Over there. Could y-you light it, and bring it over?” I couldn’t remember if there were rules against this, against non-Bajorans lighting our prayer candles, but hopefully the Prophets will forgive me. It wouldn’t the worst thing I’ve done in my life. The flame she set in front of me flickered, a pinprick of light in the overwhelming darkness. I focused, as I was taught to, drawing the sweet-waxy smell in through my nose and releasing it in a low, measured breath. I asked for peace, imagined drawing it in with each inhale, reaching out to feel the Prophets’ forgiveness.

On instinct, I took Jadzia’s hand in mine, her palm a burning a warm singular point against mine. This is how we were taught to pray in the camp where I grew up. At one point I probably sat like this, holding hands with my brothers, many lifetimes ago. But I was here now, present in this moment, slowly re-inhabiting my own body as I shook the heavy memories out like dust. I had asked for peace and from their generosity, the Prophets provided it.

Next to me, Jadzia had straightened up, formality taking hold of her spine and pulling it taut. I had the sneaking suspicion that she was observing me, making small corrections to her posture, the cadence of her breathing, all trying to mirror my own. It was almost comical, how clearly out-of-her-depth she was. I’d seen her wear that nervous expression before, in the back of the Bajoran raider as I pitched our shuttlecraft’s nose skyward. Coming too close to scraping the realm of the Gods for her pragmatic, empirical sensibilities.

“Jadzia it’s fine, you don’t need to know how to pray. I’m just glad to have the company.” I murmured softly, a tiny and amused smile gracing my lips. She deflated almost comically, letting out a relieved sigh as she slumped back into her seat with casual grace. 

“Oh. Okay, that’s good. I’m sorry. It just isn’t something I do, y’know?” Her voice was hesitant, despite her admitting something I’d already known for months. Her and the rest of Starfleet hadn’t been shy about their lack of belief in the Prophets from the very beginning. It used to infuriate me. These people were so fortunate to have experienced the Celestial Temple, who were they to dissect it with their tricorders and deny its divinity? Instead of letting my anger flare these days, I remembered the teachings of the Prophets. Patience, forgiveness, and unconditional love for all. Their Starfleet skepticism didn’t matter, the Prophets would still watch over them. They would still listen to my prayers from within the Celestial Temple, they would keep my faithless friends safe regardless. My faith was the greatest gift I could offer to the Prophets, they gave generously and asked for nothing else in return.

“Would you like to talk about it? Or would you rather some quiet for a little longer?” She asked softly, seemingly itching to steer the topic of discussion away from religion. Her earlier concerned expression had resurfaced, shimmering just beneath the surface of her eyes like a reflection in a pond. Her hand was still tangled in mine, cool fingers laying expectantly against my palm. 

I didn’t know what to say to her. Yes, I’d love to set down the lifetime’s worth of heavy memories and rest my sore arms. Yes, I’d love a break from it all, I’d love to experience a moment’s peace. But I couldn’t have it. I couldn’t unload these memories without tearing myself open like a poorly-healed wound. Who would I be without all this anger, this mistrust, this unending pain? Even if it was possible to be free of it all, I didn’t deserve relief. I made these choices, I became this proudly violent mess, I hardened myself into an unflinching weapon. I’ve killed so many with so little remorse, I don’t get peace from that, I don’t get to deny my own history, I don’t get to offer myself forgiveness.

“I can’t. Jadzia, I wish I could. If I did, you’d never be able to look at me the same way.” I left out my final thought, my throat having grown too tight to speak it anyways. She’d never be able to look at me the same way, and I _couldn’t_ handle that. I couldn’t lose her, this tentative trust, the reliable company, her cold fingertips and her warm smile. I wouldn’t admit it if anyone asked, but I’d grown to rely on her presence in my life. Like a bent-over weather-worn vine, I grew around her solid presence, she was the only thing keeping me upright.

“Try me, Nerys. You don’t have to tell me everything, or anything at all, but you could try sharing a little bit?” Her hand tightened around mine along with the sharp beat of conviction in her voice. I turned to look at her, the candlelight painting warm tones against the side of her face. Her eyes, such a soft blue, could cut me open in one swift motion if she chose. I would bleed freely if she did. Once I let a few things slip, I wasn’t sure I could stop the rest of it from pouring out of me. Jadzia was smart though, she knew me. Her “try me” was a challenge, she knew I couldn’t resist that.

“It’s just memories. Memories that refuse to stay buried, things _I_ did a long time ago, that I can’t seem to escape. No matter how hard I try.” I was surprised by how easy it was, to push my emotions aside. My throat was clear and my eyes were dry, free of the threatening prickle of tears. It was heavy, but it was also mine. My life, my choices. I wasn’t one to break down, wail loudly, and lose control. I wouldn’t have survived this long if I didn’t know how to stay in control.

Jadzia nodded patiently, thankfully knowing enough not to interject. Her eyes widened almost-imperceptibly with surprise. I suppose a part of her wasn’t sure I’d choose to say anything at all, not expecting me to so-willingly allow her in. My next words were stuck in my chest, hard and immovable like stone, bitter-tasting on the back of my tongue. If I wasn’t so preoccupied with my composure, with focusing my thoughts into coherent words, I could have laughed at the reversal of roles. Jadzia usually did all the talking, she was much better at this than I was.

“I took so many lives Jadzia. I had to. The case with Vaatrik, it _reminded_ me.” I forced the words out, letting them fall heavy in the space between us. I was glad they were free, in a way. They grew more and more suffocating the longer I held them in my chest. Jadzia was smart, I knew she’d hear the unspoken admission of guilt. She knew enough to connect the dots. I hung my head low, avoiding her gaze so I wouldn’t need to see the indictment in her eyes.

Her other hand grasping mine was a shock I couldn’t have anticipated. She was clutching at me with so much desperation that she nearly shook my arms. The tendons in her wrists, delicate strings connecting her finger-bones, were all strung taut. The dim candlelight threw their dramatic shadows into stark relief against her pale skin.

“Nerys, look at me.” She asked, low and deep. Her words were gentle, but I couldn’t ignore them any more than if they were forceful hands wrenching my gaze upwards. She looked at me, soft like a forgiveness I didn’t feel I’d earned, setting loose all the emotions I’d so neatly tucked away. From there, I could see myself reflected in her eyes, suspended in twin droplets of starlight. It was easier like this, to watch her watching me tear up slowly. It gave an illusion of some distance between me and the feelings suddenly threatening to overwhelm.

“I know. I know Nerys, it’s okay. You don’t have to say anything else, I know. Thank you for trusting me.” Prophets, I didn’t anticipate how violently the relief carried by those words would hit. A sharp gasp tore from my lips, whistling high and reedy from the tears percolating in my throat. For once, I was so deeply grateful for her perceptiveness, her ability to understand a tangled mess at a glance. Only now, it wasn’t some complex astronomical phenomena she was reading plain as words on paper, it was me. Jadzia’s arms wound around my shoulders with little warning, pulling me close into her chest.

“You’re so much more than your past Nerys. I need you to know that. No matter what you tell me, you aren’t going to lose me. Okay? I’m here for you, all of you. Past, present, and future.” If I was less emotional, I would have doubted her. The words were too perfect. But doubt took energy and I was so, so deeply tired. It was easy, so much easier, to slump into her embrace and surrender to the roaring, unfamiliar duet of her hearts.

“I’m so tired Jadzia. I can’t keep doing this, I can’t carry it all.” My voice didn’t sound like my own, wet and heavy with tears and muffled against the smooth teal fabric at the top of Jadzia’s uniform. It was all I could see, green-blue fabric pressed against my eyes, and it reminded me of the oceans on Bajor. Another sob tore its way out of my chest as I was reminded how far I was from home.

“Then we’ll try something new Nerys, we’ll try whatever it takes. I’ll help however I can.” She softly murmured, arms tightening to pull me closer to her long, lean form. I tried to remember the blue-green seas, to focus on the soft-incense smell hidden at the base of her throat, to meditate on the candlelight flickering persistently in the corner of my eye. Perhaps these little things, reminders of home, were the reasons her embrace felt so soothing. 

“I just can’t stop carrying it all. Even when everything’s alright, the memories are _still_ there, and sometimes they feel so real it’s overwhelming. It’s like I can’t fight it anymore. I’m no longer hiding from the Cardassians, but I’m still running from the memories. It doesn’t make any sense.” Once I started telling her, the rest came easier. She’d leaned back so I was half-lying on her chest, my eyes still fixed on the candle flame. It was easy to imagine that the Prophets were listening. Perhaps this is what they wanted from me. Their brutal child, finally learning gentleness. The moment felt inevitable, laid in motion by their wise hands well before I was ever born.

“Those memories _are_ real though Nerys. They’re real, and so is the pain they bring.” I knew what she meant, but I still wanted to shake my head in rebuttal. They aren’t real. The past is long-dead, it happened years ago, I’ve survived that, it’s over now. Bajor was free, I was supposed to be free too.

“It’s the past Jadzia, it’s over. I can accept the memories, but I can’t accept this _piece_ of me. This piece inside that keeps on fighting. It just—it takes over. I can’t get rid of it and I can’t control it, it just fights back every time. I don’t want to fight anymore, it’s _exhausting_.” This is the most I’d ever told anyone, I realized. Bajoran or non-Bajoran. Until recently I’d considered Bareil one of my closest friends, and our discussions mostly stuck to theology, interpretations of prophecy, Bajoran politics and history. Were Jadzia and I friends, was this friendship? The feeling unfolding in my chest, nurtured to life by her gentle fingers stroking my hair, it resisted against fitting neatly into the bounds of friendship. This was more than simple trust, more than friendship with a colleague, I realized. The way I effortlessly built a routine around her comings and goings, the easy comfort of her presence, the way I’d get lost in my own head while thinking of her. This was something different.

I knew there was no going back from this moment once I’d acknowledged that I felt differently about her. The realization clung to my palms, bleeding inky-black and staining them, marking me so all could see how arrogant I was to assume I was worthy to hold such a precious thing. I was unclean like I’d been many times before, fingernails still blood-stained after all these years. This moment, however, came with a distinct feeling of shame. I wasn’t deserving of this. I was broken, burdened by years of violence, unable to stop fighting myself. I couldn’t hope to hold her hands when mine were so tarnished and raw.

“Nerys, can I say something more? You can tell me if I cross a line.” I nodded distractedly, not entirely able to tear myself out of my own spiraling thoughts. She’s too good for this, for me. I was barely deserving of her trust, her kindness. It was selfish of me to take all she gave and still keep wanting more, a black hole consuming the light she so freely gave off. She clutched me tighter, forcing me to refocus and to listen to her.

“That part of you, the one that can’t stop fighting? I know it’s exhausting, but it doesn’t make you broken. It’s a piece of _you_ Nerys, and it’s fighting to keep you alive, it has been your whole life. It just doesn’t know that it’s allowed to stop. You can’t deny it or push it away. It needs comfort, just like you do. It deserves to be listened to and cared for and forgiven, just like you do.” Her words were urgent, bleeding with care, rattling my sense of shame until it coughed up dust. I hid a sniffle in the folds of her uniform, my head falling heavy on her chest. She had this stunning ability to take all the fight out of me with a few words, it never failed to surprise me. 

I felt silly all of a sudden, reality rushing in and reminding me of the position I was lying in, a little too intimate even for good friends. She kept her hands in position, one arm hugged around my midsection, not letting me back away. If she knew I was truly uncomfortable, she would have released me in a second. Right now though, her arms kept me stationary only long enough for me to accept reality and the comfort she offered.

“Which lifetime taught you that bit of wisdom Jadzia?” I chuckled softly, letting her reassuring presence unfold over me like a blanket. Living on Deep Space Nine had provided me with countless luxuries I hadn’t had growing up in the refugee camp or living with the Resistance. Of all those luxuries, Jadzia’s embrace was quickly becoming my favorite.

“Yours, Nerys.” She was grinning softly in a way I’d grown accustomed to, insight sparkling in her eyes and mischief curling in her red cheeks. “Now, I have more wisdom to bestow. I think that you need to relax, have some more fun. Drink your tea, I’ll replicate us a meal, and we’ll have a nice night in? I ordered a new holo-program earlier, maybe if I tell you all about it, I can convince you to join me someday?” She knew my objections to the holosuites, but I had a feeling I’d have a hard time turning her down. 

For now, I was happy to settle back into the couch with my now-cooled Tarkalean tea, playfully debating the merits of replicated versus real hasperat with Jadzia while she flitted around the room. The dying candlelight painted everything between us with the same, dreamlike amber light, and for a moment I felt clarity bloom from the back of my head. Perhaps I could someday learn to deserve this, Jadzia’s warm, reassuring weight leaning into my side, her enthusiastic conversation keeping me anchored in the comfort of the present moment. Perhaps this is the peace, the forgiveness, the unconditional love the Prophets promised all along. Perhaps, despite all my violence and rough edges, I was worthy enough for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I essentially listened to the entirety of Julien Baker's discography while writing this chapter, so I owe the especially sad-and-tender-religious-queer-vibes to that I think. I'm really loving writing (slash projecting onto) Kira's character - I hope I'm still doing her justice!
> 
> I'm currently unsure as to when the slow-burn will end tbh, I'm trying to establish Kira as having some better coping mechanisms and more of a support system before then (I realize they're fictional characters but I still don't want to set up an unhealthy relationship dynamic, y'know) but I'm also impatient sometimes - thank you all for sticking around for this long! I'm really happy to be writing things for other people again, after all this time!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! This ended up taking way longer than anticipated to write, and as a result it's also way longer than I'd intended, so hopefully that's a good thing? I have a good idea of where the next few chapters will go, it just might take a little longer to put that into writing! This chapter isn't linked to any canon events, it's truly just Kira and Dax hangin' out (with Dax being her usual-unstoppably-flirtatious-self)
> 
> Cw for mentions of anxiety like, all throughout this chapter, mostly just descriptions of anxiety as-narrated through Kira's internal dialogue.

I really did try to do what Dax had suggested, to try to be kinder to myself, to comfort that piece inside of me that was always on-edge. But as far as I could tell, it didn’t seem to want comfort. In fact, paying it any attention just made me more aware of its presence, and it fed upon that awareness like a starved animal. It was so much harder to ignore now that it was being fed a steady diet of my time and energy. I could almost always feel it, alive and tugging on the frayed edges of my focus while I tried to force my way through my shifts.

Bareil seemed to approve of Dax’s advice as well, once I’d finally gotten around to telling him. His patience and compassion were frustratingly-obvious in every word he wrote me, talking endlessly about the Prophets and the various prophecies. He likened one’s _pagh_ to a seedling-plant, talked about how they both needed tenderness and _patience_ to thrive. 

Patience was unfortunately the one thing I was always running short on. Most days I barely had enough patience to write out a response to his communiques – I’d informed Bareil multiple times that a video-comlink would be more a more efficient way of talking, but he insisted on writing me. He felt that me writing my thoughts down would provide me with more of an opportunity to reflect on them, that constructing something out of words and ideas could feel like a sort of prayer. Little did he know, the act of writing about this stuff usually just served to grate on my nerves.

The more I focused on it, the more I reflected, the easier it was to notice the wild-animal energy that lived in my chest. That piece of me didn’t feel like a seedling-plant, it felt like a caged predator, driven mad and gnawing at its own restraints. It was starving and relentless, I fed it patience but it was never enough. Most days I’d try to meditate, try to reach out and offer myself peace, but I’d return to my place in my room drained and weary. Sometimes it just couldn’t be soothed.

I was generally still strong enough to control it, which was a small mercy. I’d grown up hungry, so I was used to working through a gaping, desperate need. I gave the feeling what little peace I could find, a patchwork of calm evenings with Jadzia, moments of solitude to read Bareil’s communiques, and whatever food and rest I made time for. It was all I could give, it had to be enough. I could feel it grow restless once again, but before I could focus my energy there, I was jostled out of my own head by someone’s sudden presence.

“Kira, please!” Jadzia drawled, her face drawn into an exaggerated pout. The freshly-off-duty Lieutenant leaned over my console, yanking my unfocused eyes away from the display-screen in front of me. Her eyes were rounded and shimmering like a baby animal’s, clearly trying to charm me into agreeing to whatever she’d just asked of me. Had we even been talking, or was she just picking up an hours-old conversation we’d set aside? How long was she waiting there, watching me staring blankly at my own workspace?

“What, Jadzia?” I groused back, irked at my focus having been shattered so easily. I’d been distracted all day by the wild-tense-feeling and I’d barely managed to quiet it long enough to start working on the new batch of shift reassignments. She sighed plaintively at my tone, tilting her head into an innocent, intentionally-cute position as she held my eye contact.

“Please, come have a drink with me and Julian and Chief O’Brien at Quark’s? It’ll be fun Kira, I promise!” Her smile grew wider, making those twinkling eyes scrunch up in amusement, emphasizing the word _fun_. That plan sounded decidedly un-fun, to me at least. I took a long breath out, my fingers coming up to pinch the ridges along my nose-bridge in frustration.

“Jadzia I… I’m tired, and I barely know them. Why can’t we just go back to my quarters for the evening?” That had become our habit, over the past month or so. I’d bring my reports, and Jadzia would bring a PADD of her recent experimental results and another containing a piece of literature she’d been reading. We’d have dinner together and work together in a peaceful quiet, with Jadzia occasionally telling me her thoughts on the narrative’s progression or a character’s recent choices. It was nice, the reliability of it all. My vision of the idyllic, calm evening was broken by Dax’s enthusiastic voice, happily responding to my complaints.

“You’ll never get to know them if you don’t start somewhere! And besides, Nerys.” Jadzia’s voice lowered in volume, softening as she leaned in so I was the only one who could hear her next words. “I don’t want you to just keep on isolating yourself. The others, they all care about you too, they just need a chance to show it. I want you to know you aren’t alone, that there’s a whole station-full of people who want to be your friend.” Her gaze held the serious, almost-urgent energy of her words for a half-second more before she straightened back up, giving me back my personal space and returning to her upright position. “I want to get to spend time with _all_ my friends, together!” I really wanted to stay grumpy with her, but that smile of hers was already starting to erode my resolve. I’d gone soft, clearly.

“I don’t know Dax, I doubt we’d even get along.” I tried a new angle, remembering the multiple occasions where I’d snapped at Doctor Bashir for crossing a line. His self-aggrandizing attitude, his assumptions about Bajor being a backwards, simple planet, his insistence I speak to a Federation counselor who’d surely sound just like him, they all made anger stir in my gut. That feral-feeling was awake and growling now, its sharp teeth clacking at the unpleasant memory. It made me feel restless and shaky, like a shuttlecraft in an ion storm. External sensors dulled, inertial dampers offline, all power to life support functions.

“I know Julian’s crossed some lines in the past.” Dax acknowledged, always perceptive. “He doesn’t do it out of spite though. We’ve talked about it many times; he feels awful for upsetting you. He’s still learning, and I promise you, once you get to know him, you’ll see he’s such a genuinely caring person. And Miles is easygoing and kind, he tempers Julian’s excitability and there isn’t an intimidating bone in that man’s body. They’re good people Kira.” She urged softly. The energy between us suddenly felt all-too serious, frighteningly genuine. I wanted mischievous Dax back like I needed a breath of fresh air.

“Did you rehearse those in your quarters, Dax? You sound like a Ferengi trying to close a deal. What sales pitch did you give them about me to win them over?” I chuckled sarcastically, closing my files and re-engaging the security seals as I prepared to power down the console. 

Dax saw right through my humor and took it as an opportunity for her to win yet another battle of wits. Her hand, fingers half-curled, found its way under my chin, tilting my head up to face her in a bold show of intimacy, especially in the middle of Ops. As I’m sure she intended, the action knocked me off-centre, disarming me with surprise. She was wearing that terrible mischief-loving smirk, the one that meant nothing but trouble for me.

“For the record, I didn’t have to tell them anything. They just want to get to know you. But, if you’re challenging me to describe the _great_ Kira Nerys, I’d have to say, she’s…” Jadzia trailed off in faux-thoughtfulness, coming to half-sit on my now-powered-down console. The side of her thigh blocked most of the text of its sign-off message, and I tried _not_ to remember how my hands had rested in that exact spot moments ago. Her voice had dropped into her boots, heavy like gravity, pulling me closer. 

“Kira Nerys is fascinating. She’s as fierce as all the infamous Klingon warriors, she’s as stubborn as a wild targ, and she’s absolutely _terrifying_ when she’s behind the controls of a Bajoran sub-impulse raider. She’s also deeply honorable, incredibly strong, and surprisingly gentle, if you’re willing to muscle past her prickly exterior. If I had to describe Kira Nerys, I’d say she’s maybe one the most _interesting_ people I’ve ever met.” Jadzia had leaned in close – or maybe I was the one who’d done most of the leaning – anyways, she was so close that I could feel her words feathering out over my cheek, carried by her cool breath. “So, does that win you over Kira? Do we have a deal?”

All I could think of was that she was indeed _so_ close, I don’t know if her face has ever been this near mine. I found myself pleading for the strength not to waver, not to ruin the moment we were suspended in with an accidental misstep. A blush had settled over my cheeks and nose-bridge, warm and tingling, and I could tell that delighted her. My insides had turned to liquid the second she’d begun talking, sloshing and bubbling with an unfamiliar warm-uneasy feeling brought on by every compliment. Fierce, stubborn, honorable, strong, _interesting_. 

Jadzia made the word interesting sound like it was the highest praise possible, a coveted title that few would ever earn. A word more flattering than _beautiful_ , more nuanced than _nice_ , more powerful than _beloved_.

If I moved, at all, I was afraid we’d touch. I got the sense I could barely turn my head without my nose gracing against her cheek. The mere thought of that sent my liquid-insides reeling, sloshing like tea in an unstable cup. Mercifully, Jadzia pulled back, equal parts mischief and tenderness in those magnetic eyes of hers. She pouted her lip again, eyebrows pulling into a plaintive peak, reminding me of her earlier question. Damn her, I was never going to be able to say ‘no’ to that face, never again.

“Fine, they can join us. Just for one drink though! I’m leaving whenever I want to leave.” I wanted to imply that she’d leave with me, but I knew I couldn’t speak for her. I just couldn’t help feeling disappointed at the prospect of totally sacrificing my usual calm evening with Dax. She grinned back, victorious, leaping off the console like she’d won a prize.

“Wonderful! I’ll tell them to meet us there in 10?” Dax chirped excitedly, linking her arm through mine and nearly pulling me off my feet in my surprise. Apparently, I wouldn’t be lingering long after my shift ended today. She’d almost dragged me all the way to the turbolift before I managed to get my own heels underfoot. “How are you feeling Nerys?” Jadzia asked as the turbolift doors settled shut. 

The glee and the mischief that’d been dancing through her eyes mere moments earlier had faded into the background, soft concern stepping forward to take the spotlight in their place. “If you really aren’t up to going to Quark’s, you can tell me, I’ll understand. I was just having a bit of fun with you before.” Her kindness made me sigh, my breath whistling around the heavy-tense feeling that now seemed to live in my chest full-time.

“I’m a big girl Jadzia, I could say no to you if I really wanted to.” It’s not _totally_ a lie, I was capable, in theory, of telling her no. I just couldn’t imagine ever wanting to. She looked like she wanted to cut in, to say some annoyingly-charming thing about how she’d need to work harder at being more irresistible, but she knew enough to let me finish my thought. “I’m a little tired, but I think I can handle it. It might even be nice.” I offered. I wasn’t entirely sure I believed it, but I didn’t want Dax to think she’d forced me into some awful, torturous situation. My voice sounded a little damp and weary, but I figured it wasn’t worth hiding that from her. Jadzia knew what _tired_ meant. Her hand found its way to the center of my back, a warm and familiar presence. I could just crumble to pieces, dissolve and let those gentle hands catch me as I fell.

“Sounds good. We can talk more later, just the two of us, if you think that might help. Or I could tell you about the novel I just finished, whatever you’d like.” Jadzia crooned, offering me her soft and gentle smile, the one she seemed to save just for me. The turbolift doors slid open and the noises and smells of the Promenade filled the once-quiet space in an instant. It was always so busy right after a shift-change, with officers meeting up with their families and friends, perusing the shops, or sharing a meal. For an instant, I couldn’t remember what this place had looked like before. Before the Occupation ended and Starfleet came, before I traded in my civilian’s clothes and stolen disruptor rifle for a militia uniform and a badge.

Quark’s was just as noisy and lively as the Promenade, but the bar always had a seedier, less-innocent energy than the other shops just outside. It was all the same noise, same chatter, same sounds of glasses and plates clinking, but there always seemed to be something sinister lurking. It set me on edge, the heavy-tight feeling in my chest pacing and growling, making me restless. The feeling wasn’t entirely irrational—Quark may only be a small-time criminal, but he was still disloyal and untrustworthy.

“Miles! Julian!” Jadzia crowed over the clamor of voices, her attention snagged by the two men in Starfleet uniforms who were waving us over from a table in the corner of the room. She’d linked her arm through mine again without me noticing, so when she stretched up to wave back at the others she nearly pulled me up off the ground. The extra few inches she had over me, paired with her exuberance, was a hazard sometimes.

“Dax! Major! Good to see you both! How was Ops?” The doctor greeted us, eyes gleaming with that un-flappable optimism I found so difficult to understand. Dax answered him for both of us, which I was grateful for. I was still too pre-occupied wrestling the tense, animal feeling pacing circles in my chest to formulate words. Jadzia filled him in on the day’s events, the communique from Gul Dukat that’d made Sisko grumble for two hours straight, the disagreement between the Bolian and Idanian freighters over who would get priority to dock near Cargo Bay 2. 

Somewhere in the middle of her dramatic retelling of Sisko’s Dukat-induced frustrated muttering, she ordered me a Tarkalean tea from one of the many hovering Ferengi waiters. I couldn’t tell if it was the familiarity of the gesture, or the way her furrowed brow and her gruff voice made her resemble the Commander _perfectly_ , but I couldn’t help cracking a weak grin.

Bashir was talking now, eagerly outlining the line-up of patients that kept him busy in the Infirmary all day. Jadzia was right I suppose, he was easy to talk to. Mostly because I didn’t need to worry about saying anything at all. It was a nice chance to observe things, a glimpse into how he viewed the world and what he found interesting. 

For all his earlier talk about the exciting glories of ‘frontier medicine’, he seemed perfectly content to spend his days treating minor injuries and giving check-ups to the station’s children. So content, that nobody could get a word in edgewise once he got going. I couldn’t complain about it though. He talked about administering routine childhood vaccinations to the station’s newly-arrived Bajoran children with such excitement, such love. His eyes shone like he could see their futures laid out in front of him, futures he’d gladly fight for and defend. It flooded me with warmth to listen to him, knowing he loved my people in his own fierce way.

The feeling in my chest shifted, shaking loose a new wave of worries. I haven’t said anything yet, what if they think that’s weird? The Chief, whose shoulders were still hunched after a long day spent curled-up in a Jeffries tube somewhere, wasn’t being particularly chatty either. Jadzia had wanted me to try though, to try making friends with them. She seemed so happy here, her eyes seemed to sparkle as she traded scientific-sounding commentary with Dr. Bashir. As much as it made my stomach twist, I wanted to try. If only so I could see her eyes twinkling like that again someday.

“Chief, how’s your daughter adjusting to living on the station?” I stuttered awkwardly, trying to hide the anxiety in my voice. People with kids loved to talk about their kids, this would be a safe topic, right? Luckily, he seemed relieved to have the opportunity to say something – I suppose he wasn’t following Dax and Dr. Bashir’s lively debate on the selection pressures influencing Andorian B-cell phenotypes either.

“She’s not particularly keen on station life at times – Keiko’s been busy running the school, and I think Molly’s starting to get a bit cooped up. She has so many questions about Bajor though, she keeps asking if we can go exploring.” He chuckled, no doubt able to hear his child’s voice in his imagination, clear as day. Something in my heart clenched at the thought of Molly O’Brien, small and optimistic, gallivanting through the fields in Dahkur Province, rolling around in the tall grasses and collecting interesting rocks. Bajoran or not, it had been a while since any child felt so safe there. I knew he probably didn’t mean to elicit such a strong emotion, so I did my best to hide my suddenly-watery-eyes behind a genuine smile. In that moment, it all felt worth it, all the bloodshed and the death and the lingering pain. It was worth it if it meant even one child was able to play pretend, innocent and free.

“You should take her on a vacation Chief! You all deserve a rest!” Dax chirped, her attention having swung over to the new conversation. She shifted in her chair, pressing a comforting splash of warmth into the outside of my leg with the side of her thigh. It was brief, small enough that her other friends likely wouldn’t notice, but it was meaningful to me. It was like she could see the picture I was imagining and predict the emotion stirring in my throat. She had this uncanny ability to pick these things up, and to offer comfort without me ever having to ask.

“Mhm, it’s the warm season, Dahkur’s lovely this time of year.” I murmured, trying to keep my words light. It’s true, Dahkur is lovely during the warm season. The tall grasses are surely in full bloom now, a patchwork of dusty green and russet stems with golden seed-heads bobbing in the breeze. I lived in those foothills for years, I know every mountain and valley like they were my own family. The fresh wild fruit was something to look forward to after months of near-starving. The long, amber-yellow days brought peace to the moments after a violent and bloody raid. The tea-warm air still smelled sweet, even as it whistled over the gravestone of a newly-buried comrade. It felt like forgiveness, the arrival of the heat and the sunlight. It felt like the Prophets’ hands, reliable and reassuring, a natural rhythm that connected us all.

“Huh right, a vacation, good one. I can’t seem to get five minutes of peace without some new system outage or subroutine glitch, I’d like to see you all handle an entire _week_ without me.” O’Brien chuckled, laughing off Dax’s earlier, optimistic comment. He was right, this station was a mess. The engineer looked up, his tired eyes meeting mine. “I’ll keep that in mind Major, thanks. Maybe I can convince Keiko to find the time for a weekend visit to the surface.” It was a conscious choice, on his part, to address me directly. He could have laughed off Dax’s quip and carried on. I’m not sure if it was the kind gesture, and the faint-greying exhaustion in his eyes, but I got the sense that he understood me on some level. I didn’t know much about his life prior to the station, but I was aware that he’d been a soldier for quite a while. Perhaps he also felt the isolation, the exhaustion, the weight that lingered on.

The conversation slowly picked up again, with Jadzia teasing the Doctor as he obviously, and somewhat awkwardly, tried to flirt with the Bajoran dabo girl, Leeta, who was headed to the bar after her shift. Her eyes were glittering with mischief as she leaned over in a façade of seriousness, advising her friend of his next move. I wondered where this side of her came from, the charismatic and charming Dax. Whose lifetime of experience was she drawing upon now as she alluded to the many ways to make a beautiful woman swoon? What face had she worn in the stories that she told? Who taught her that beautiful, irresistible smirk? It was funny, I thought, how at-home I felt in her presence. Bajor was my first home, and I knew it better than I knew myself. Jadzia Dax, however, was an enigma. I never thought it was possible to feel so comfortable in the face of such mystery.

I decided she couldn’t have inherited all her charms from her previous hosts. The way her eyebrows quirked in mischief, the sweet-low rumbling of her voice, those seemed tailor-made for her and her alone. No one else in the universe could have worn her traits quite like she did.

I could feel my energy beginning to wane as the bar grew noisier, a sure sign it was beginning to get late. The feeling in my chest had deflated into a mildly-annoying itch behind the middle of my ribs, which meant Jadzia was right, this had been fun. The closest to fun I’d felt in a long time, at least. The Chief was the first to excuse himself, eager to head home and see his daughter before it got too late. The Doctor seemed to have finally worked up the nerve to approach Leeta – the dabo girl having already cast him about seven sweetly-interested smiles from where she sat at the bar. I’d just barely returned to the present moment when I noticed Dax offering me her hand, her soft eyes gleaming.

“Ready to call it a night?” She murmured, leaning into my space so I could hear her over the babbling of nearby conversations and the trilling of the dabo wheel. The closeness between us sparked a flash of self-consciousness in my gut, especially since so many others were able to see. I said my awkward goodbyes to the two Starfleet officers getting ready to head their own separate ways. Thankfully, neither of them seemed to notice how red I’d gone with Dax’s close proximity. She snagged her elbow in mine and walked us out of the bar, past the noisy crowd of gamblers and past the two Ferengi waiters squabbling behind the bar.

“So… How was that?” Jadzia’s voice was tentative now, like cautious feet on thin ice. It was a disorienting shift in tone from back in the bar when she was giving the Doctor flirting tips, playfully boasting about the countless attractive partners she’d won through her lifetimes of charm. Everything about her was conflicting and contradictory in a way that made my head spin. She was both unsure yet proudly-preening, understanding but deeply stubborn, cold fingertips with a warm, soft smile. She made me contradictory too, I realized. Jadzia had this otherworldly ability to quiet the noise in my mind while igniting my nerves. She could make the heavy feeling in my chest toss and roil, while filling me with a lightness and a sense of excitement I’d never known before. Standing next to her felt mundane yet extraordinary, like the tense-calm before a battle and simultaneously like coming home at the end of a long day.

Thinking about it all made my lungs feel squished in some large and invisible fist. For a few moments in the noisy bar, I’d felt comfortable and safe. Now the anxiety had leapt back from its hiding spot, stalking between my ribs with unsheathed claws, fierce and itching to fight. I couldn’t tell what had alerted it, I wasn’t in any real danger. I was just tired, maybe a bit confused. Disoriented by the change in routine, by Jadzia’s uncanny ability to catch me off guard.

“It was new. Nice, I think. They’re both nice.” I didn’t really have the words to explain the confusing soup of feelings simmering low in my gut, but I did my best. The Chief and Dr. Bashir seemed nice, that was true. The experience as a whole was nice. A different kind of bonding than I was used to in the Resistance. It was cautious and exploratory, so unlike the deep and instant bond cemented between comrades facing disruptor-fire. I stepped out of the turbolift on autopilot, suddenly finding myself in the Habitat Ring with no idea of where I planned to go next.

“Your place or mine?” Dax’s eyebrows quirked into an inquisitive, teasing expression. Her smirking face paired unexpectedly well with her stern-clasped hands, held at attention over the small of her back. Contradictions upon contradictions, and she made them all fit together effortlessly. I shrugged, noncommittal, the heavy feeling in my chest had already stolen my boldness away. Besides, Jadzia always seemed to have a plan of her own. She nodded, untangling her hands and resting one on my upper arm to guide me into motion. Her quarters, judging by the direction she’d pointed us.

“Did you have a nice evening?” I asked while trying to keep pace as she moved to open the door. I was still feeling somewhat disoriented. We didn’t spend much time in Jadzia’s quarters, the room was still unfamiliar to me. It was such an orderly-yet-chaotic space, with stuff _absolutely_ everywhere. Every item had some sort of long history attached to it, everything was sentimental and precious, kept in its own distinct place in a never-changing landscape of barely-organized visual clutter. Nothing like the sparse simplicity of my own quarters, a place I felt little sentiment towards. Dax smiled, pensive, settling into the couch off to the side of the room, careful not to disturb the heavy fur throw draped across the back.

“Absolutely. They’re good friends, Julian and Miles, I’ve missed their company.” Jadzia’s eyes were hazy with memory, tracing two fingers through the wiry guard hairs on the throw. She looked like she was lost in some memory, whether it was hers or a previous host’s I couldn’t tell. All I could sense was a connectedness across time, a hazy thread of longing. I tried to mimic her comfortable position with little success, shifting uncomfortably against the sleek-rough fur blanket as the implication of her words settled in. She’s missed their company because _I_ was keeping her from her friends. Dax returned to the present, pulled out of her moment of reflection as she saw my face fall. She reached forward as if she was going to catch my hands in hers, stopping short a finger-length away at the last minute, wary of my boundaries.

“Kira, I have a lot of friends, and I care about them all. They all bring something unique and positive to my existence. I’m a Joined Trill and that means there are so many aspects to my life and my self. Some of my relationships even extend beyond my own lifetime. There will always be many people in my life, and there will always be people that I miss.” She paused, her measured, low voice breaking as she put thought into her words. Lifetimes worth of thought. I was trying to listen, but I could sense the animal-feeling tensing in my chest, defensive and ready to strike back. I couldn’t hold back the hurt in my voice as I impulsively stabbed it into the soft space of her pause.

“Never mind Dax, I never meant to steal all your time.” My words sounded pathetic and wounded, but my tone was violent because it was the only defense I had left. I wanted to lash out, to force her away before she could choose to leave me behind. Jadzia, too stubborn to be deterred by my vitriol, caught my hand loosely as I was about to twist further away. She had a bemused ‘tsking’ noise brewing in the back of her throat, the kind of noise that fondly said _relax, silly girl, you aren’t going to scare me off so easily_. Of course, what she actually said was far more tactful, emotion softening her already-gentle voice.

“Kira, there are always going to be other people who are important to me, but that doesn’t diminish your importance. One person can’t possibly be everything, that wouldn’t be fair of me to expect from you. You don’t need to be everything to be enough for me. You don’t need to be everything to be someone I care _very_ deeply for.” My anger burnt off hot but fast, and I’d felt the fight drain out of my bones the second she said my name. That feeling in my chest was begging to run and hide and be alone, because loneliness was predictable and Dax was anything but predictable. But my heart wasn’t in it. 

Tonight had been nice, why was I suddenly being pulled apart like this? Why was that _feeling_ always lurking, chasing me from inside myself in an inescapable way? Why did it sound so believable when it told me I was a burden, that Dax would forget about me and I’d end up all alone. Frustration burned my eyes, liquid and hot and desperate and weak. It always came back to weakness and vulnerability, no matter how hard I tried to fight it.

“I don’t want other people, I can barely manage this.” I spat, my mouth filling with chokingly-thick saliva and desperate, burning feelings, leaving me gasping for air. Jadzia and Bareil both talked so much about embracing vulnerability, about the clarity it brings, and that never made sense to me. Vulnerability isn’t a calm-clear feeling, it’s violent. Vulnerability is the kind of thing that tears itself from my chest like an explosion, it’s painful and disgusting. It’s metallic like tears and blood, it’s a desperate animal feeling, all flashing-eye-whites and clacking jaws. Vulnerability was a violent creature, pursuing me until I can no longer run, sinking its teeth and talons into my skin and ripping each horrible emotion out of my flesh one by one.

“I can’t do it Jadzia, I can’t give everyone _this_ , I can’t. You’re the only one, but you said, you can’t be everything, you said, but I can’t, I can’t do it Jadz– ” A ragged inhale cut me off, my desperate and drowning lungs unwilling to wait any longer. My breathing was coming fast and unsteady like I was being chased towards my own demise, and my head somehow felt both vacant and muffled by pain. Outside of it all, I felt heavy pressure settle against my back and my crossed forearms, cool palms clearing gaps in the fog.

“Shhh Nerys, it’s okay, one thing at a time.” Jadzia soothed, folding her too-tall form into an embrace around my hunched shoulders and stiff-bent legs. Her hand was on my back, rubbing slow circles, each pass threatening to shake more tears loose. My breathing, even as it slowed, sounded raspy and deafeningly-loud. Despite that, I could clearly hear the smile in her voice as she spoke. “A year ago, when Starfleet first arrived, did you ever think you’d trust me at all? Because if you did, you sure as hell didn’t show it. You didn’t want anything to do with me, and you made that desire clear. But things have changed since then, right?” She asked, soft amusement in her voice as she tightened her hug to emphasize her point. She did have a point. A year ago, if anyone had told me I’d someday be crying in the arms of that annoyingly-wise Starfleet science officer, I probably would have knocked them flat on their ass.

“I’ve lived six lifetimes before this one – and for five of those I was fortunate enough to grow old and die wise – so I can say, with some confidence, that you’ve got time Nerys. It’s taken you a year to come this far, you have your entire lifetime left to tackle the rest. Besides, I don’t exactly _mind_ being your favorite for now. It’s nice, it makes me feel special.” I could feel her voice vibrating in her chest, that patented Dax combination of knowledge and mirth. A heavy-calm feeling pooled in my limbs thanks to her talent for soothing that wild-and-terrified feeling. I could meditate for hours and get nowhere, while the simple press of Jadzia’s hand on my back could move mountains.

She was special, special in ways I wasn’t sure she could possibly be aware of. At first it had been confusing, this unexplained desire compelling me to trust her. She is alien, unfamiliar and unknown, but she is also special beyond description. There were words, old Bajoran words that referred to a bond so deep that it was inevitable, words for people whose touch was as pure and healing as the Prophets’ hands. None of the words would hold their true meaning when translated though, and all of them struck fear into my core. This wasn’t the frantic-wild-anxiety feeling, pacing in my chest with froth-flecked lips, this was more profound. This fear felt like the ground beneath my feet springing to life, like a crumbling and creative force bringing about something terrifyingly new.

I don’t think I’ve felt this way about anyone before. I cared deeply about the members of my resistance cell, I loved and trusted them like I loved and trusted my own bone and blood. I would have killed or died for any of them. Jadzia doesn’t ask me to kill or die for her though. She asks me to _live_. She lifts me out of my soldier’s-boots and holds me up to see the sunlight. She makes me wish I knew how to want things and to hold hope, she makes me want to dream of something better.

If I knew how to dream, I don’t know if I could come up with anything much better than this, this one particular shared moment. Perhaps that’s just a side effect of my neglected imagination. All I know is I’d dream of Jadzia, earnest and patient, holding me safely in her arms. She would be telling me flattering things in that syrup-sweet voice of hers. I’d dream that I felt loved and timeless. Everything would look and feel just as it does right now, lying safe in Jadzia’s arms. The only sour indication that made this real was the existence of the hungry-eyed fear-creature that lives in my chest. If this was a dream, I’d feel light and whole and healed, I’d feel worthy of all this goodness. If this was a dream then I’d tell Jadzia how loved I felt, I’d tell her I loved her too. In reality, silence stretched on. Jadzia had meant to be joking earlier, and I could tell by the tension in her chest and her restless fingers in my hair that she was waiting for me to respond, worrying she’d crossed a line.

“You’ve got a centuries-old worm living in your belly dispensing wisdom, but you need _me_ to make you feel special? That sounds like a bit of a stretch.” My voice creaked from disuse, but my smile was genuine. It felt silly to think that Jadzia Dax, a wondrous, timeless creature, took the opinion of one measly troubled ex-terrorist from the Dahkur Hills so highly. She pulled her arms tighter around me, bringing me so close to her body that I could feel the low chuckle bouncing about within her chest. Her cheek was pressed to my forehead, plastering my hair to my skin with her surprising warmth. The way she was holding me, I couldn’t see her face. Regardless, I knew she was certainly smiling.

“Oh, Kira Nerys.” She rumbled, her voice rich with warmth. For a moment, I thought she’d meet with my sarcastic comment and rebut with her own high-spirited wit. But unpredictable as she was, she fell startlingly serious. “If only you knew how incredible you truly are.” 

The corner of her mouth pressed into my hairline, chasing her softly-whispered words in a move so shy yet purposeful that it nearly stole the breath from my throat. I couldn’t help falling still to draw out the fragile moment. I felt like I’d just locked eyes with a rare animal in the wild, or like I’d witnessed a new star spark into existence out of nothing.

As quickly as the moment had bloomed, it snapped back in on itself in a violent contraction of space. Jadzia went stiff against me, struck with an uncharacteristic bolt of uncertainty. She rearranged her arms, unnecessarily adjusting our embrace to try to conceal her momentary slip from imagination into reality. Jadzia Dax wasn’t a self-conscious individual by nature, but then again, she never ceased to stop surprising me. 

I wanted to reassure her, to keep her present in this moment long enough for her uncertainty to burn away, but I couldn’t find any words I’d feel confident offering. Instead, I leaned deeper into her hug, humming my contentment in the hope that she would understand. _It’s okay, it’s alright, you’ve done nothing wrong. I want this too. I’m almost ready but I’m not there, not yet. It’s a dream I’d one day like to live._

If this was a dream, I’d be bold enough to look her in the eyes, to put my hand on her cheek and to tell her I welcomed her tenderness. I’d tell her that she never needed to feel uncertain in my arms ever again. I’d tell her I was starting to know how incredible she thought I was. I’d tell her that I was doing my best to see what she saw in me. I’d tell her I thought she was incredible too. For now though, I knew it was enough just to hold her in return, and to listen to the alien rhythm of her two hearts beating in sync. It was a good enough reality for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has truly become the slowest of slow burns (though things will develop pretty significantly over the next few chapters!)
> 
> I realized, 7 chapters in, that Dax is maybe too social of a character to spend all her free time with Kira and be fine with that. She can be caring and sweet but she's also a social butterfly who thrives on attention, I figured eventually she'd push Kira into socializing with her. Plus, I really wanted to write more of Kira interacting with the other characters (especially Julian! They just got off on the wrong foot, eventually they'll learn to understand and love each other).
> 
> Hopefully this chapter doesn't come across too disorganized! I tried editing it into smaller chapters for a week, but it just wasn't happening. I'm hoping the next few updates will be a bit more focused and less long-and-rambly!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! :)


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